!!  Mi     I    !  I      H     !       I 


By  HENRY  WELLINGTON  WACK 


The  Romance  of  Victor  Hugo  and  Juliette  Drouet. 

With  an  Introduction  by  FRANCOIS  COPPEE.  Illustrated. 
Crown  octavo. 

The  Story  of  the  Congo  Free  State, 

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to  the  Sea.  (In  preparation.)  Illustrated.  Octavo. 


G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  YorK  London 


The  Romance  of 
Victor  Hugo 


and 


Juliette  Drouet 

By 

Henry  Wellington  Wack 

With  an  Introduction  by  Francois  Coppee 


Praised  above  men  be  thou, 

Whose  laurel-laden  brow, 
Made  for  the  morning,  droops  not  in  the  night ; 

Praised  and  beloved,  that  none 

Of  all  thy  great  things  done 
Flies  higher  than  thy  most  equal  spirit's  flight ; 

Praised,  that  nor  doubt  nor  hope  could  bend 
Earth's  loftiest  head,  found  upright  to  the  end. 

ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE. 


Illustrated 

G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New   York  and   London 

Cbc  fmfcfterbocfcer  press 

1905 


COPYRIGHT,  1905 

BY 
HENRY  WELLINGTON  WACK 


"Cbc  ftnfcberbocfcer  press,  flew  tJorfc 


PQ; 


Wll 


to 


335691 


jforeworb 

I  HAD  published  a  considerable  number  of 
Madame  Drouet's  letters  to  Victor  Hugo, 
in  London,  when,  through  an  eminent  Eng- 
lish scholar,  I  received  an  invitation  from 
the  editor  of  a  leading  Paris  magazine  and  an- 
other from  an  editor  in  Berlin,  to  write  for 
publication  in  French  and  German  the  story  of 
my  literary  treasure-trove.  The  reviews  of  my 
first  article  on  the  subject  indicated  more  than 
ordinary  public  interest  in  these  impassioned 
love  letters  from  a  beautiful  and  altogether 
remarkable  Frenchwoman  to  the  greatest  of 
French  poets.  It  was  also  evident  that  a  sub- 
stantial interest  actuated  those  of  the  critical 
press  who  expressed  opinions  upon  the  journal 
of  Francois  Hugo  and  the  letters  of  Juliette 
Drouet,  included  in  the  discovery  I  had  made 
during  a  casual  ramble  through  the  island  of 
Guernsey. 


Joreworb 


VI 


jforeworfc 

When  the  second  series  of  letters  and  a 
further  section  of  the  Hugo  journal  appeared, 
English  and  French  reviewers  alike  were  of 
the  opinion  that  these  stained  and  torn  old 
manuscripts,  dug  up  by  the  merest  chance 
from  the  haunts  of  the  exiled  poet,  are  well 
worthy  that  literary  record  without  which  the 
conscientious  student  should  never  reveal  an 
affaire  de  c&ur  concerning  a  great  man.  Of 
the  many  reviews  these  letters  of  Juliette 
Drouet  have  called  forth,  all  save  one  approve 
the  author's  method  of  treating  a  subject  re- 
garded by  the  Anglo-Saxon  mind  as  one  of 
extreme  delicacy,  and  have  justified  the  pub- 
lication of  a  journal  intime  and  of  letters 
which  indifferent  hands  would  probably  have 
cast  into  the  insatiate  maw  of  a  scrap-basket. 
One  hostile  note,  emanating  from  the  virtuous 
city  of  Glasgow,  alone  was  heard  denying 
literary  warrant  for  preserving  the  manu- 
scripts. According  to  the  Glasgow  standards 
of  morality,  Victor  Hugo  was  an  "old  rout" 
who,  not  content  with  exciting  human  emo- 


Jforeworfc 

tions  through  his  poems,  proceeded  to  gratify 
them  in  the  manner  of  human  life.  The 
author  was,  therefore,  denounced  as  a  person 
who  requires  refrigeration  by  the  method  em- 
ployed in  preserving  Australian  mutton.  If 
this  critic  deserves  to  be  heeded,  then  the  land 
of  Burns  may  reasonably  be  charged  with 
prudery. 

Hugo  was  a  man  of  powerful  sensations — 
physically  as  well  as  mentally.  Subject  to  a 
flood  of  emotions  born  of  the  incidents,  the 
desires,  and  the  dreams  of  each  day,  he  em- 
ployed his  great  energy  with  marvellous  ver- 
satility, unchecked  impulse,  and  (sometimes) 
with  an  arrogance  that  provoked  hostility. 
He  applied  his  potentialities  in  a  lavish 
way,  often  with  a  great  show  of  that 
vanity  we  all  possess  in  some  degree  ;  he 
touched  life  at  many  points,  from  affairs  of 
the  heart  and  the  senses  to  those  produced 
by  the  political  madness  of  the  Second  Em- 
pire. After  all,  life  is  but  atomic  agitation. 
Hugo's  tremendous  industry  in  all  things 


Vlll 


jforeworfc 


*  oreworD  reveals  his  principle  of  progress,  which  is  that 
nothing  in  nature  is  inert.  He  undoubtedly 
believed  that  the  man  who  did  not  move  for- 
ward was,  in  fact,  moving  backward,  for  what 
ceases  to  develop  through  movement  resolves 
itself  into  its  constituent  elements.  Hugo  pur- 
sued every  opportunity  for  new  work,  new 
sensations,  fresh  emotion.  He  desired  to  ab- 
sorb as  much  on  life's  eager  forward  way  as 
his  great  nature  craved.  His  range  in  all 
things,  mental,  physical,  and  spiritual,  was 
so  far  beyond  the  ordinary  that  the  gauge  of 
average  cannot  be  applied  to  him. 

Victor  Hugo  did  not  starve  virtue  nor  feed 
vice  so  much  as  he  vivified  both  in  utter  dis- 
regard of  creeds  and  conventionalities.  Mrs. 
Grundy  had  no  dominion  over  his  transcend- 
ental genius.  The  cavil  of  the  moralist  did 
not  disturb  him.  Abnormal  in  all  his  parts  and 
performances,  who  amongst  us  shall  decry 
the  beauty  of  his  love  for  Juliette  Drouet  ? 

If  we  do  not  read  amiss,  Burns  and  Hugo 
resemble  each  other  more  nearly  in  their  do- 


foreword 


IX 


mestic  irregularities  than  in  their  literary 
genius,  though  each  is  the  greatest  lyric  poet 
of  his  nation.  But  we  have  yet  to  learn  that 
Scotsmen  think  ill  of  Burns  because  of  his 
liaisons  with  Jean  Armour  and  others,  any 
more  than  Frenchmen  think  ill  of  Hugo  for  his 
fifty  years'  intimacy  with  Juliette  Drouet.  On 
the  contrary,  their  research  into  the  minutest 
particulars  of  the  life  of  their  national  poet 
has  been  tireless,  while  their  adulation  of  his 
literary  genius  has  led  them  to  dignify  with 
type  a  vast  number  of  puerilities  which  the 
judgment  of  their  author  would  surely  con- 
demn were  he  still  among  us  to  edit  his  own 
works. 

It  is  much  to  be  feared  that  what  are  and 
what  are  not  the  highest  morals  between  men 
and  women  will  never  be  satisfactorily  deter- 
mined. Variations  in  climate  and  individual 
human  temperament  forbid  such  a  supposition. 
The  code  of  morals  in  every  civilised  nation, 
being  adapted  to  the  normal,  is  rebelled  against 
by  the  best  and  by  the  worst  of  mankind. 


jforeworc 


jforeworfc 

Genius  is  more  abnormal  than  criminality,  or 
we  should  have  as  many  poets  as  we  have 
burglars.  In  1805,  when  France  was  strain- 
ing her  every  nerve  to  invade  England,  there 
was  a  small  party  of  Englishmen  that  insisted 
upon  the  deposition  of  the  only  English  ad- 
miral able  to  avert  such  a  disaster  because, 
forsooth!  of  his  irregular  relations  with  Lady 
Hamilton.  The  incomparable  master  of  naval 
strategy  was,  at  a  moment  of  grave  national 
peril,  to  give  place  to  a  mediocre  captain !  Of 
course,  common  sense  prevailed  in  that  case, 
as  it  has  prevailed  in  the  continued  esteem 
among  lovers  of  noble  thoughts  beautifully 
expressed  by  Byron,  Burns,  Hugo,  et  hoc 
genus  omnes.  Not  only  this,  there  is  always 
something  deeply  interesting  in  the  weakness 
and  failings  of  the  strong  and  successful,  and 
much  that  is  helpful  and  inspiring  has  been, 
and  will  continue  to  be,  learned  from  the 
study  of  them.  The  loves  of  Victor  and  Juli- 
ette are  pathetic  in  their  fervour  and  constancy, 
and  deserve  to  be  recorded  on  the  same  scroll 


jforeworfc 


with  the  attachment  of  Abelard  to  Heloise, 
Petrarch  to  Laura,  Dante  to  Beatrice.  For 
good  or  for  evil — good,  as  I  believe — the 
world  has  long  known  of  the  romance  of  Vic- 
tor Hugo  and  Juliette  Drouet.  That  it  should 
now  know  of  it  more  fully  and  accurately 
than  ever  before  cannot  be  matter  for  regret. 
"And  yet — and  yet" — I  hear  a  murmur 
from  the  ingle-nook,  "we  hae  our  doots  i' 
the  Braes  o'  sackdoudling  Scawtland." 

H.  W.  W. 

PARIS  :  November,  1904. 


tforewort 


Xlll 


Content0 

rAGB 

INTRODUCTION 3 

VICTOR  HUGO  AND  MME.  DROUET    .        .  23 

I. — EXILES  OF  THE  SECOND  EMPIRE      .  25 

II. — THE  POET'S  HOME  WITH  GUERN- 
SEY FOLK       ....  34 

III. — LITERARY  TREASURE-TROVE.        .  50 

IV. — LOVE,  THE  MASTER      ...  69 

V. — THE  LABOURS  OF  GENIUS      .        .  87 

JULIETTE'S  LETTERS  TO  VICTOR  HUGO       .  90 

FROM    AN    UNKNOWN  LADY  TO  VICTOR 

HUGO 141 

CLAIRE  TO  VICTOR  HUGO         .        .        .  144 


Contents 


XV 

Illustrations 

PAGE 

Victor  Hugo.     After  the  Painting  by  De- 
veria,  1858  .        .        .  Frontispiece 

fllustra* 

tions 

Facsimile  of  a  Letter  from  Juliette  Drouet 
to  Victor  Hugo  (1836)     .        .        .        4 

The  Salon  in  Hugo's  House,  Place  Roy- 
ale  (now  Place  des  Vosges),  Paris    .        8 

Victor    Hugo.       Caricature    by   Isabey 
(1840)     10 

Don  Cesar  de  Bazan.     From  the  Paint- 

ing by  Roybet         .        .        .        .14 

"  Built  Methodism."    The  House  on  Ma- 

rine Terrace,  Jersey,  where   Hugo 
Lived  Three  Years  .        .        .        .16 

The  Cathedral  of  Notre  Dame,  Paris       .       18 

A     Bas-relief    of    Hugo,  by    Professor 
Michel    26 

The  Poet  and    a    Group    of  Guernsey 
Children  in  the  Garden  of  Hauteville 

House     28 

XVI 


flllustrations 


Illuetra- 

tions 


Hauteville  House,  Guernsey.     From  the 

Garden 30 

Hauteville  House,  Guernsey.     From  the 

Street 32 

The  Drawing-room,  Hauteville  House   .  36 

The  Garibaldi  Room,  Hauteville  House  .  38 

Victor  Hugo's  Study,  Hauteville  House .  40 

The  Dining-room,  Hauteville  House      .  42 

Victor  Hugo  in  His  Garden  (Hauteville 

House) 44 

Inkstands  of  Lamartine,  Dumas,  George 
Sand,  and  Victor  Hugo,  in  Haute- 
ville House 46 

The  Dining-room,  Hauteville  House, 
Showing  Tiled  Fireplace  in  Form  of 
Letter  H 48 

A  Wood-Carving  by  Hugo    ...       52 
Francois  Hugo,  Son  of  the  Poet     .        .       54 

A  Caricature  by  Hugo  in  Scorn  of  His 

Critics 56 

Paul  Meurice,  Friend  and  Literary  Ex- 
ecutor of  Hugo  ....  60 

Hugo's  House  in  the  Place  Royale  (now 

Place  des  Vosges),  Paris          .         .       64 


11  [lustrations 

xvii 

PAGE 

Victor  Hugo.     Caricature  by  Daumier  .       66 
Madame  Hugo,  Wife  of  Victor  Hugo      .       72 

Illustra- 
tions 

Les  Burgraves.     By  Rochegrosse  .         .       76 

La  Esmeralda.      From  the  Painting  by 
L.  Olivier  Merson   ....       80 

Victor  Hugo.     Caricature  by  Benjamin 
(1843)     .                                           .       84 

An  Ancient  House  in  Blois.     Drawn  by 
Hugo      88 

Juliette  Drouet.    From  a  Drawing  from 
Life  by  Vilain  94 

The   Statue   of  Strasburg,   Place   de   la 
Concorde,  Paris,  for  which  Juliette 
Drouet  Sat  as  Model        .        .        .     100 

A  Late  Portrait  of  the  Poet     .        .        .106 

The  Room  in  which  Hugo  Died    .        .     112 

The   Monument  to   Hugo,   by   Barrias, 
Avenue  Victor  Hugo,  Paris     .        .120 

Facsimile  of  the  Handwriting  of  Victor 
Hugo      130 

•flntrotwction 

E  Jf rancois  Coppcc 


Untrobuction 

T  HAVE  read  with  much  pleasure  what  Mr. 
*  Henry  Wellington  Wack  has  written 
concerning  Victor  Hugo  in  exile.  His  story 
is  enriched  by  authentic  documents  which 
throw  light  on  certain  opinions  of  the  great 
poet,  and  give  us  besides  many  interesting 
details  of  his  private  life. 

"No  man  is  a  hero  to  his  valet,"  says  the 
proverb,  and  to  the  general  public,  when 
their  curiosity  is  aroused,  a  great  man  is  no 
hero  either.  This  curiosity,  however,  is,  after 
all,  quite  legitimate,  and  Mr.  Wack  was, 
therefore,  perfectly  free  to  make  known  to  us, 
together  with  other  anecdotes  relating  to  his 
love  affairs,  the  fact  that  Victor  Hugo  had 
Madame  Juliette  Drouet  as  his  intimate  com- 
panion from  the  age  of  thirty  years.  He  has 
done  so  with  tact  and  good  taste. 


Ube  IRomance  ot 


Coppc'c  on 


As  regards  myself,  since  the  author  asks 
me  to  speak  of  Victor  Hugo  and  to  give  some 
personal  reminiscences  of  my  relations  with 
him,  I  must  beg  to  be  allowed  to  do  so  from 
a  general  point  of  view. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  was  never  admitted 
into  his  intimate  circle,  and  if  I,  by  chance, 
discovered  some  little  weaknesses,  I  ought 
to-day — as  a  Frenchman  and  a  poet — to  draw 
over  them  the  cloak  with  which  the  sons  of 
Noah  covered  the  nudity  of  their  father, 
under  circumstances  with  which  the  Bible 
has  made  us  sufficiently  familiar. 

But  I  must  repeat  that  although  I  passion- 
ately admired  and  loved  with  filial  affection 
the  greatest,  the  most  wonderful  of  lyric 
poets,  not  only  of  France,  but  perhaps  of  all 
countries;  although  I  had  the  happiness  of 
earning  his  sympathetic  approbation  and  the 
honour  of  obtaining  his  vote  when  I  pre- 
sented myself  for  election  before  the  French 
Academy,  I  yet  never  entered  sufficiently 
into  his  intimate  circle  to  be  able  to  give 


fcrA**~€t*^ — < 


t: —  ^f^C^^ 


-7  «i  ,e^r  *- 


:   . 


JS 
"  V»j£>  Ja*&£  *+~ 

^x^Jj    ^ 


''" 


;   1 


Facsimile  of  a  Letter  from  Juliette  Drouet  to  Victor  Hugo  (1836). 


Iflfctor  fm0o  anfc  /iDme.  H)rouet 


here,  even  should   I   wish   it,  anything   but 

Oenius 

reminiscences  of  his  personality  at  the  differ- 
ent periods  of  our  intercourse. 

Although  successive  amnesties  had  thrown 
open  the  gates  of  Paris  to  political  exiles 
who  had  been  banished  after  the  coup  d'etat 
of  December  2,  1851,  Victor  Hugo,  during 
the  last  years  of  the  Empire,  seemed  to  be 
definitely  installed  at  Guernsey. 

History,  in  judging  this  proscription  se- 
verely, will  certainly  be  right,  but  unfortun- 
ately the  Second  Empire  is  not  alone  in 
bearing  such  a  stain.  Without  going  back 
through  the  centuries,  we  have,  even  to-day, 
the  spectacle  of  a  poet,  Paul  Deroulede,  exiled 
by  the  French  Government.  In  spite  of  the 
patriotic  and  avenging  poems  with  which  he 
consoled  his  country  after  the  reverses  of 
1870-71,  in  spite  of  the  chivalrous  nobility 
of  his  character,  which  is  admired  by  every 
true  Frenchman,  Paul  Deroulede  is  still  at 
St.  Sebastian,  whilst  Victor  Hugo,  three  years 
after  December  2nd,  could  have  returned  to 


Ube  IRomance  ot 


ultima      France.     In  this  respect   the   Republic    has 

Verba 

nothing  to  cast  at  the  Empire. 

If  Victor  Hugo  remained  in  exile  it  was 
purely  because  he  desired  to  do  so.  He 
wished  this  voluntary  exile  to  be  a  living 
protestation  against  the  government  he  hated. 
Who  can  forget  the  lines  in  which  he  asserts 
his  determination  ?  The  verses  from  Les 
Chdtiments,  entitled  Ultima  Verba,  are,  in 
fact,  among  his  best: 

"  Si  1'on  est  plus  que  mille,  eh  bien,  j'en  suis!     Si  meme 

Us  ne  sont  plus  que  cent,  je  brave  encore  Sylla; 
S'il  en  demeure  dix,  je  serai  le  dixieme; 
Et  s'il  n'en  reste  qu'un  je  serai  celui-la!  " 

Towards  the  year  1864,  when  I  commenced 
to  associate  with  a  few  young  literary  men, — I 
had  already  published  different  poems  here 
and  there  in  the  Reviews, — we,  my  young 
comrades  and  myself,  often  spoke  of  the  great 
poet.  Some  of  our  number,  whose  means 
allowed  it,  had  made  the  pilgrimage  to  Haute- 
ville  House,  with  the  feelings  and  enthusi- 
asm of  a  Mussulman  on  his  way  to  Mecca. 


Dictor  tmgo  ant>  flDme.  Brouet 


Unfortunately  my  lack  of  funds  prevented  me 
from  making  this  pious  pilgrimage.  It  was 
only  during  the  year  1867  that  I  was  at  last 
able  to  take  a  modest  third-class  ticket  to 
Brussels,  where  Victor  Hugo  was  then  stay- 
ing for  a  few  weeks.  I  made  my  appearance 
at  the  Place  des  Barricades  —  fit  name  for  the 
home  of  a  revolutionist  —  trembling  with 
emotion. 

The  great  poet,  to  whom  I  had  sent  my 
first  volume  of  verse,  Le  Reliquaire,  and  who 
had  thanked  me  in  one  of  those  four-lined 
lapidary  eulogies  peculiar  to  himself,  treated 
with  fatherly  kindness  and  gave  a  place  at 
his  table  to  the  young  rhymester  who  came  to 
pay  him  the  tribute  of  his  admiration. 

I  was  at  first  somewhat  astonished  at  his 
appearance.  I  saw  no  sign  of  the  Victor 
Hugo  made  familiar  by  romantic  pictures,  by 
the  busts  of  David  d'Angers  and  the  portraits 
of  Deveria,  in  all  of  which  he  appears  clean- 
shaven, his  massive  forehead  surrounded  by 
long  and  rebel  locks.  Nor  was  he  then  the 


ttoutb 
ant*  tbe 
/Caster 


IRomance  of 


fjucio's 

Voice  ant) 

Smile 


venerable  patriarch  whose  physiognomy,  with 
its  white  beard  and  close-cropped  hair,  has 
since  become  and  still  remains  so  well  known 
and  firmly  fixed  in  popular  favour.  At  this 
date  his  hair  and  beard  were  turning  grey, 
pepper-and-salt  as  it  is  called,  and  his  whole 
person  was  suggestive  of  strength.  He  spoke 
with  a  grave,  well-modulated  voice,  rather 
slowly,  as  was  his  wont;  and  at  certain  mo- 
ments there  was  an  infinite  sweetness,  almost 
a  caress,  in  his  look,  in  his  smile,  in  the  man- 
ner of  his  expression. 

But  truth  to  tell,  these  souvenirs  are  blurred 
by  the  mist  of  years,  more  especially  so,  be- 
cause I  felt  such  emotion  in  Victor  Hugo's 
presence  that  I  scarcely  found  leisure  to  ex- 
amine him  attentively.  The  feeling  that  was 
uppermost  in  my  mind  then  was  that  I  was 
conversing  with  a  man  whose  peer  I  should 
probably  never  meet  again  in  my  lifetime. 

An  old  man  to-day,  I  congratulate  myself 
on  this  emotion  in  the  presence  of  genius. 
Lamartine  has  been  reproached  with  those 


IDIctor  tw0o  ant>  flDme.  Brouet 


words  of  naive  arrogance  which  broke  forth 
after  the  visit  of  a  young  man  who  had  been 
presented  to  him:  "I  prophesy  no  good  for 
that  young  man,"  he  said;  "he  was  not 
moved  by  my  presence."  Victor  Hugo  could 
certainly  not  have  said  the  same  of  me,  for  he 
could  have  found  no  one  whose  heart,  in  his 
presence,  beat  more  violently  than  the  heart  of 
the  youthful  admirer  of  his  fame  that  I  then 
was. 

I  left  Brussels  delirious.  I  had  been  re- 
ceived by  the  great  poet!  I  had  brought  back 
with  me  one  of  his  books  in  which  he  was 
good  enough  to  write  a  few  words  with  his 
characteristically  powerful  signature. 

I  was  not  to  see  Victor  Hugo  again  until 
the  terrible  year  of  the  siege  of  Paris,  when  he 
came  back  to  France  to  share  the  sufferings  of 
his  compatriots.  He  took  furnished  apart- 
ments whose  windows  looked  on  the  Place 
du  Theatre  Fran^ais.  I  had  the  honour  of 
dining  with  him  there  several  times.  I  had 
taken  my  first  step  on  the  ladder  of  Fame  by 


Ube  Siege 
of  parts 


IRomance  of 


(Sauticr 
ant> 

fcfianvtllc 


my  little  play,  Le  Passant ;  my  first  collection 
of  poems,  Les  Intimites  and  Les  Poemes 
Modernes,  had  made  my  name  known.  It 
had  fallen  to  my  lot  to  win  a  modest  spray 
of  laurels.  I  sat  once  more,  therefore,  at 
Victor  Hugo's  table  in  the  company  of  two 
other  poets,  whom  I  greatly  admired  and 
who  had  been  very  good  to  me,  Theophile 
Gautier  and  Theodore  de  Banville. 

At  these  repasts  of  Victor  Hugo  during  the 
siege  (which  had  nothing  gastronomic  about 
them,  as  can  well  be  imagined,  for  we  were 
making  our  first  deceptive  experiments  in 
"hippophagie,"  and  potatoes  were  then  very 
scarce  and  considered  a  great  luxury),  there 
were  not  only  poets  present ;  there  were  also 
political  men,  whom  Victor  Hugo  treated  with 
the  greatest  consideration.  But  I  remember 
very  well  how  he  endeavoured  as  often  as 
possible  to  bring  the  conversation  round  to 
literary  subjects,  and  with  what  pleasure  he 
provoked  Gautier's  calm  and  polished  con- 
versation and  de  Banville's  dazzling  wit. 


Victor  Hugo.      Caricature  by  Isabey  (1840). 


IDictor  tMQo  anD  flDme.  Drouet 


It  was  for  Gautier's  charming  daughter  that 
Hugo,  who  loved  a  joke,  wrote  at  this  time 
the  quatrain  in  which  he  makes  allusion  to 
the  horse-flesh  which  was  then  almost  the 
only  food  of  the  Parisian. 

"  Si  vous  etiez  venue,  6  beaute  que  j'admire, 
Je  vous  aurais  offert  un  festin  sans  rival  : 
J'aurais  tue  Pegase  et  je  1'aurais  fait  cuire 
Afin  de  vous  donner  une  aile  de  cheval !  " 

Here  I  may  record  one  of  his  conversations 
which  I  must  confess  struck  me  as  rather 
comical.  One  evening  as  he  was  protesting 
against  the  horrors  of  war,  he  suddenly  ex- 
pressed an  idea  that  was  certainly  very 
strange.  He  would,  he  said,  address  a  chal- 
lenge to  the  King  of  Prussia,  whose  armies 
then  besieged  Paris. 

"We  are  both  old,"  he  said.  "He  is  a 
powerful  sovereign  and  it  is  agreed  that  I  am 
a  great  poet.  We  are  therefore  equal.  Why 
should  we  not  decide  the  quarrel  which  di- 
vides our  two  nations  by  single  combat  and 
spare  so  many  lives  ?  " 


pcqasus 
on  Coast 


"Romance  of 


TTbe  poet's 
Paris 
•fcotnes 


It  was  magnificent,  if  you  like,  but  hardly 
practical.  The  dispute,  however,  was  not 
referred  to  the  judgment  of  God  as  in  the 
Middle  Ages,  and  every  one  knows  how  the 
abominable  blockade  ended. 

From  this  time  I  was  in  constant  intercourse 
with  Victor  Hugo.  I  saw  him  at  each  of  the 
different  places  he  occupied  in  Paris.  He  was 
at  first  installed  for  a  short  time  in  a  little  flat 
in  the  Rue  Pigalle,  where  I  had  the  rare  privi- 
lege of  passing  a  whole  evening  en  tete  a  ttte 
with  him  and  Madame  Juliette  Drouet,  who 
was  no  longer  the  beautiful  Juliette  once  so 
admired  by  the  public  of  the  Theatre  Porte 
Saint  Martin  in  Lucrece  Borgia  and  Marie 
Tudor,  but  was  transformed  into  a  silent  and 
eminently  respectable  old  lady. 

Victor  Hugo  all  to  myself!  What  good 
fortune  !  We  spoke  only  of  poetry,  and  I  re- 
member he  seemed  a  little  surprised  as  I 
recited  to  him  many  of  his  poems  that  I  knew 
by  heart. 

From    here   he    removed  to  the    Rue   de 


IDictor  tMQO  anfc  flDme.  H)rouet 


Clichy.  I  often  met  there  the  poets  of  my 
generation,  whom  he  delighted  to  gather 
round  his  table. 

Never  to  be  forgotten  were  those  evenings 
when  we  were  lucky  enough  to  find  neither 
minister,  senator,  nor  deputy, — for  in  the  pre- 
sence of  political  men  Victor  Hugo  always 
seemed  to  me  somewhat  stiff, — when  he 
warmed  to  his  subject,  let  himself  go,  as  it 
were,  and  his  conversation  took  a  natural 
turn  full  of  charm.  He  recounted  to  us  the 
literary  battles  of  the  Romantic  Movement, 
for  example,  the  first  night  of  Hernani,  and  a 
thousand  other  memorable  incidents  of  that 
period  of  the  nineteenth  century,  which  will 
certainly  remain  among  the  most  glorious  of 
our  literary  history. 

How  he  would  then  have  astonished  those 
who  had  represented  him  as  being  exceedingly 
solemn,  in  fact,  a  poseur!  If  they  had  seen 
him  so  it  was  doubtless  due  to  themselves. 
Perhaps  to  the  bumptious  and  self-opinionated 
he  gave  himself  the  air  of  an  oracle,  but  with 


Ube 
•Romantic 

Movement 


ZTbe  IRomance  of 


•fDugo's 
Bppetite 


poets,  I  repeat,  he  was  ease  and  simplicity,  I 
might  even  say  familiarity,  itself. 

At  these  dinners  we  were  greatly  impressed 
by  his  formidable  appetite.  He  ate  enormous 
pieces  of  roast  meat  and  drank  large  glasses 
of  undiluted  wine.  A  typical  detail  struck  me 
particularly.  At  the  end  of  the  meal  he  dipped 
orange  quarters  into  his  wine  and  ate  them 
with  marked  satisfaction.  Everything  about 
Victor  Hugo  was  extraordinary,  even  his 
digestion. 

In  the  course  of  the  evening  a  great  number 
of  people  came  to  pay  homage  to  the  poet.  He 
received  each  one  with  a  kindly  word,  but  to 
ladies  especially  he  was  exquisitely  gracious 
and  courteous.  His  manners  savoured  of  the 
inimitable  old-world  courtesy,  now,  alas!  un- 
known of  the  nobles  of  these  days. 

He  left  the  Rue  de  Clichy  for  the  little 
Hotel  of  the  Avenue  d'Eylau,  which  now 
bears  his  name  and  where  he  died.  Here, 
again,  I  was  often  his  guest. 

It  was  here  that  he  received  the  visit  of  an 


Don  Cesar  de  Bazan.     From  the  painting  by  Roybet. 


Dictor  twgo  an£>  flDme,  2>rouet 


emperor,  under  the  following  circumstances :       s>om 

pe&ro 

Dom  Pedro,  Emperor  of  Brazil,  was,  as  every- 
one knows,  greatly  interested  in  literature  and 
science.  He  was  a  devout  attendant  at  the 
sittings  of  the  French  Academy  and  Institute, 
and  affected  the  society  of  literary  men  and 
scientists. 

It  was  but  natural,  therefore,  that  he  should 
desire  to  see  Victor  Hugo.  He  made  known 
his  request,  but  Victor  Hugo,  embarrassed,  as 
may  well  be  imagined,  by  his  extravagant 
republicanism,  replied:  "I  do  not  visit  em- 
perors." Nothing  daunted,  Dom  Pedro  re- 
plied: "Let  not  this  be  an  obstacle  to  our 
meeting.  M.  Victor  Hugo  has  the  advantage 
over  me  of  age  and  superior  genius.  I,  there- 
fore, will  visit  him." 

The  poet  was  touched.  He  inquired  if  the 
Emperor  would  consent  to  dine  with  him, 
which  invitation  was  immediately  accepted. 
In  presenting  his  two  grandchildren,  Georges 
and  Jeanne,  for  whom  his  affection  is  well 
known,  he  said:  "My  children,  here  is  an 


i6 


Ube  IRomance  of 


•Rn 

Emperor 
as  OJuest 


emperor,  but  an  emperor  who  stands  almost 
unique;  an  emperor  who  has  abolished  slav- 
ery, an  emperor  who  visits  an  old  republican, 
etc.,  .  .  ."  The  remainder  can  be  easily 
imagined. 

Dom  Pedro  smiled  and  kissed  the  two 
children,  and  during  the  evening  showed 
himself  full  of  simplicity  and  graciousness. 
He  had  brought  with  him  the  last  volume 
published  by  his  host,  and  begged  Victor 
Hugo  to  write  an  inscription  in  it. 

But  here  a  new  difficulty  presented  itself. 
What  formula  would  the  inflexible  old  revo- 
lutionary use  ?  He  extricated  himself  cleverly 
from  the  difficulty  by  giving  the  Emperor  a 
magnificent  and  high-sounding  title  that  would 
not  have  been  misplaced  in  the  declamations 
of  Hernani  or  Ruy  Bias. 

He  wrote:  "To  Dom  Pedro  d' Alcantara." 

Apropos  of  dedication,  I  remember  hear- 
ing the  Due  d'Aumale,  member  of  various 
classes  of  the  Institute,  tell  how,  having  sent 
his  History  of  the  Prince  of  Conde  to  Victor 


"I 


Uictor  lbu0o  anO  flDme.  Brouet 


Hugo,  he  received  from  him  a  letter  of  thanks 
and  congratulations.  Here,  again,  the  poet  had 
cleverly  avoided  employing  the  formal  title 
of  Monseigneur  or  Altesse  Royale.  The  Due 
d'Aumale  smilingly  admired  the  formula 
adopted  by  Victor  Hugo:  "Cher  et  royal 
confrere." 

1  have  said  that  this  great  poet  in  his  con- 
versations with  literary  men  was  most  simple. 
However,  almost  imperceptibly,  at  times,  his 
voice  swelled  and  he  became  solemnly  pro- 
phetic. At  certain  moments  during  dinner, 
for  example,  it  seemed  as  if  Victor  Hugo 
could  not  resist  touching  upon  some  grave 
question,  especially  that  of  the  immortality  of 
the  soul,  for  he  was  a  great  spiritualist. 

One  day,  or  rather  one  evening,  Schoelcher, 
his  old  friend,  who  did  not  believe  in  a  future 
life,  expressed  this  opinion  rather  forcibly. 
Victor  Hugo  was  not  slow  to  retort:  "You 
are  right,  Schoelcher,"  he  said;  "  every  one  is 
not  immortal.  One  day,  Dante,  having  writ- 
ten two  verses  on  a  sheet  of  paper,  went  out 


Due 
S'Humalc 


i8 


Ube  IRomance  ot 


immor- 


for  a  little  walk.  Then  the  first  verse  said  to 
the  second  :  '  It  is  very  nice  to  be  a  verse  of 
Dante,  for  we  are  immortal.'  The  second 
verse  in  return  replied:  'It  is  not  at  all  sure; 
do  you  really  believe  we  are  both  immortal  ?  ' 
Whereupon  Dante  returned,  re-read  his  two 
verses,  found  the  second  worthless,  and 
erased  it." 

Thus  we  see  Victor  Hugo  was  not  only  a 
great  poet,  but  a  man  of  infinite  wit. 

Although  his  friends  often  begged  him  to 
read  them  verses  he  had  just  composed,  he 
rarely  acceded  to  their  request.  Once,  how- 
ever, he  spoke  to  us  of  a  poem  on  the  treason 
of  Bazaine  which  was  not  in  the  Annte  Ter- 
rible recently  published.  We  scarcely  dared 
to  hope  that  he  would  read  it  to  us,  but  we 
insisted,  and  he  did.  He  recited  admirably, 
rather  slowly  perhaps,  but  in  a  deep,  grave 
voice,  in  accents  that  stirred  the  depths  of 
the  soul  and  touched  the  deepest  chords  of 
feeling.  And  as  we  expressed  our  astonish- 
ment that  he  had  not  placed  the  lovely  poem 


IDictor  tmgo  an&  flDme.  Brouet 


among  those  that  dealt  with  the  terrible  days 
of  the  war  of  '70  and  of  the  Commune,  which 
constituted  the  Annee  Terrible,  he  gave  us 
the  reason.  It  was  this:  that  the  book  hav- 
ing appeared  before  the  judgment  of  the 
council  of  war  which  condemned  the  Marshal, 
he  did  not  wish  that  the  verses,  which  were 
very  severe  on  Bazaine,  should  influence  the 
judges  in  any  way. 

This  poem  has  appeared  since  in  the  Quatre 
Vents  de  I' Esprit,  if  I  am  not  mistaken.  But 
it  is  not,  I  believe,  useless  to  cite  this  trait, 
which  does  honour  to  Victor  Hugo.  The 
man  in  question  was  his  political  enemy, 
and  his  generosity  was  all  the  more  meri- 
torious, as  it  conquered  the  most  savage  of 
passions. 

My  remembrances  of  Victor  Hugo  are  so 
abundant  that  if  I  allowed  myself  full  rein  I 
should  write  a  book  instead  of  a  short  article ; 
I  must  limit  myself,  therefore,  to-day.  How- 
ever, after  having  read  the  unique  articles  of 
Mr.  Wack,  who  shows  us,  above  all,  the  exile, 


Ucrecs  on 
JBa^aine 


20 


Ube  "Romance  of 


fjugo'0       I  would  express  an  opinion  which  has  long 

Satire 

taken  root  in  my  mind. 

Certainly  the  Second  Empire  ought  not  to 
have  proscribed  Victor  Hugo.  But  I  consider, 
and  I  believe  I  may  affirm  it  without  being 
accused  of  paradox,  that  it  rendered  him  a 
great  service. 

To  begin  with,  it  was  that  exile  which  in- 
spired Les  Chdtiments,  a  very  exaggerated 
and  unjust  book,  without  doubt,  but  which, 
however,  gave  to  France  an  inimitable  master- 
piece in  the  satirical  style.  Moreover,  I  am 
convinced  that  Victor  Hugo's  genius  during 
those  years  of  solitude,  of  meditation,  and 
inward  existence  in  the  isles  of  the  Norman 
archipelago,  took  a  new  and  wider  flight. 

In  what  country,  in  what  language,  has  a 
poet  ever  sung  of  the  sea  with  such  power, 
truth,  and  picturesqueness  as  the  poems  of 
Victor  Hugo  portray  ?  Not  a  detail  escapes 
him;  he  depicts  its  every  aspect,  paints  its 
every  colour,  murmurs  its  every  song.  The 
very  rhythm  of  the  sea  has  passed  into  his 


IPfctor  tbugo  an&  flDme.  JDrouct 


verse,  for  he  lived  in  such  close  communion 
with  the  ocean  at  Guernsey,  he  so  absorbed 
its  grandeur,  that  his  works  became  as  another 
ocean. 


IDictor  1bugo  anfc  ffl>me.  Brewer 


fijiles  of  tbe  Secono  Empire 

'T'HE  rigours  of  an  early  English  spring  be- 
*  ing  as  agreeable  to  me  as  fog  and  rain 
and  foul  days  can  ever  be  to  a  lover  of  sun 
and  crisp,  keen  air,  I  directed  my  way,  in 
March,  from  London  to  Guernsey,  one  of 
those  tiny  rock-reefed  islands  which  are  strung 
like  a  necklet  of  pearls  in  the  English  Channel. 
I  had  already  a  fair  acquaintance  with 
Guernsey,  so  far  as  that  can  be  acquired  by 
aid  of  map,  printed  page,  and  uttered  word. 
What  student  of  France's  greatest  lyric  poet 
has  not  ?  But  no  thought  of  Hugo  influenced 
me  in  determining  upon  a  trip  to  Guernsey. 
I  was  weary  of  the  gloom,  the  depressing 
slough  of  the  Empire  English  City,  its  inter- 
minable toil  and  groan.  I  pined  for  the 


Oucrnscv 

Sfcics 


IRomance  of 


duafnt      brightest  sun-spot  off  the  coast,   its  quaint 
frit 

Guernsey  folk,  its  Norman  patois,  its  quiet  iso- 
lation from  the  civic  strife  of  men. 

These  conditions  are  the  magnets  which 
attract  most  of  the  English  people  who  visit 
the  island.  Nor  are  these  all  of  Guernsey's 
charms — as  witness  Mr.  George  R.  Sims,  the 
genial  poet-dramatist,  journalist,  raconteur, 
whom  it  has  been  my  privilege  to  enjoy  at 
the  entertaining  Saturday  Nights  of  the  Sav- 
age Club.  "With  Guernsey  I  instantly  fell 
in  love,"  says  Mr.  Sims.  "If  ever  I  can  get 
away  from  the  toil  and  moil  of  Babylon,  I 
shall  go  and  settle  at  Guernsey — not  merely 
to  escape  income-tax  and  King's  taxes,  and 
to  smoke  penny  Havanas  and  drink  penny 
glasses  of  brandy,  and  to  live  under  Home 
Rule,  and  do  without  receipt  stamps,  and  to 
snap  my  fingers  at  Somerset  House,  but  be- 
cause it  is  such  a  delightful  climate,  such  a 
gloriously  beautiful  and  romantic  little  island, 
because  everybody  is  so  jolly  and  so  com- 
fortable there." 


A  bas-relief  of  Hugo,  by  Professor  Michel. 


IDictor  tmao  an&  flDme.  2>rouet 


The  little  green,  rugged  gem  of  earth  upon     merman 

patois 

which  "Dagonet"  wrote  so  eloquently,  is 
only  nine  miles  long  and  nowhere  exceeds 
five  miles  in  breadth.  Its  form  is  nearly  trian- 
gular, being  somewhat  similar  to  Sicily.  It 
lies  off  the  coast  of  Normandy,  and,  considered 
geographically,  is  undoubtedly  a  French  isl- 
and; but  with  the  other  Channel  Islands  it  has 
belonged  to  England  practically  without  a 
break  since  the  year  1066,  France  having  made 
two  or  three  abortive  attempts  to  regain  pos- 
session of  it.  Yet  to  this  day  the  peasantry — 
who  supply  England  with  the  finest  early 
potatoes  that  ever  palate  relished — speak  a  cor- 
rupted dialect  of  old  Norman-French,  quaintly 
intermixed  —  as  in  Lower  Canada  —  with 
perverted  Engilsh  words.  At  St.  Peter  Port, 
Guernsey,  as  in  all  the  other  towns  of  the 
Channel  Islands,  English  is  generally  spoken; 
and  where  it  is  not  habitually  spoken,  it  is,  at 
least,  tolerably  well  understood. 

Guernsey  is  in  communication  with  three 
points  on  the  English  coast,  being  seventy- 


TRomance  ot 


B  Ulealm 

in 
flDiniature 


five  miles  from  Weymouth,  ninety-two  miles 
from  Plymouth,  and  one  hundred  and  thirteen 
miles  south-west  by  south  from  Southamp- 
ton. I  chose  the  latter  route,  and  after  a 
fearful  night  of  rough  seas  and  heavy  winds, 
found  myself  exploring  this  pretty  little  garden 
island — the  smallest  political  state  which  I  have 
met  with  in  my  travels. 

But  dominating  the  delights  of  a  fine,  equa- 
ble climate,  a  grand  seascape,  and  an  abundant 
flora,  Guernsey  possesses  for  the  literary  en- 
thusiast a  more  absorbing  interest  in  the  fact 
that  it  was  the  chosen  home  of  Victor  Hugo 
during  fifteen  years  of  his  exile — from  1855  to 
1870. 

Those  who  are  familiar  with  the  life  of  Hugo 
will  recall  how  strenuously  the  poet  resisted 
Louis  Napoleon's  coup  d'ttat  which  trans- 
formed its  author  from  President  of  the  French 
Republic  into  Emperor.  The  coup  was  sud- 
den, and  preparations  for  the  suppression  of 
opposition  to  it  had  been  carefully  planned 
and  all  precautions  taken.  Hugo's  efforts, 


The  poet  and  a  group  of  Guernsey  children  in  the 
garden  of  Hauteville  House. 


Dictor  "fcugo  an&  flDme.  H)rouet 


and  those  of  the  small  band  of  consistent  Re- 
publicans associated  with  him  to  organise 
any  effectual  resistance,  were  from  the  first 
hopelessly  futile;  and  after  frantic  exertions 
and  rapid  flitting  from  one  place  of  temporary 
security  to  another  he  was  constrained  to 
leave  his  beloved  France.  Disguised  as  a 
workman  and  armed  with  a  forged  passport, 
the  poet  made  his  way  to  Brussels,  his  flight 
being  aided  by  his  friend  Madame  Drouet, 
concerning  whom  there  is  presently  more  to 
be  said.  Hugo  arrived  in  Brussels  on  the 
1 4th  of  the  month,  one  of  a  crowd  of  refu- 
gees. They  were  not  all  Republicans;  a 
number  were  Royalists,  faithful  to  the  old 
regime,  but  they  were  all  equally  opposed  to 
the  usurpation  of  Louis  Napoleon.  Included 
among  them  were  several  distinguished  men, 
though  not  another  whose  natural  parts  could 
be  compared  with  those  of  Victor  Hugo. 
And — what  is  rare  among  men  of  genius — 
the  great  poet's  energy  was  equal  to  his 
ability,  which  is  saying  much.  On  the  very 


•Refugees 


TTbe  IRomance  of 


Tlapoleon 
tbe  little 


day  of  his  arrival  in  Brussels,  Hugo  sat  down 
to  write  his  History  of  a  Crime.  This  amal- 
gam of  satire  and  invective  was  completed  in 
May,  1852.  But  strongly  condemnatory  as  it 
is  of  the  chief  actor  in  the  events  which  had 
recently  convulsed  France,  it  was  not  suffi- 
ciently intense  to  satisfy  its  writer,  who  laid  it 
aside  and  began  another  work,  Napoleon  the 
Little,  the  most  crushing,  most  impassioned 
indictment  ever  penned  against  any  man. 
So  withering  was  the  scorn  shot  at  the  head 
of  the  self-created  Emperor  that  the  friendly 
relations  of  France  and  Belgium  were  endan- 
gered. Tight  little  Belgium,  being  in  neither 
condition  nor  mood  to  provoke  a  conflict 
with  her  larger  neighbour,  politely  intimated 
to  Hugo  that  his  continued  presence  was  not 
desirable,  though  it  was  necessary  for  the 
Belgians  first  to  make  a  special  law  to  meet 
the  case. 

Hugo's  association  with  the  Channel  Islands 
was  now  to  begin.  On  August  5,  1852,  Hugo 
and  his  two  sons  arrived  in  Jersey  and  took 


IDictor  DUQO  arto  flDme.  2>rouet 


31 


up  their  residence  at  No.  3,  Marine  Terrace,      »artne 

Uerracc 

on  a  hill  overlooking  St.  Helier,  the  chief 
town  of  the  island.  This  refuge  looks  to-day 
more  like  a  conventional  boarding-house  than 
the  retreat  of  the  master  poet  of  his  time. 
Hugo  never  really  liked  the  house,  nor  the 
island  folk  around  it,  for  he  afterwards  de- 
scribed it  as  a  "  piece  of  built  methodism." 

The  small  colony  of  political  exiles  which 
had  fluttered  out  of  Paris  after  the  coup  d'etat 
of  Louis  Napoleon  and  his  sham  Republic,  re- 
united its  scattered  talents  at  this  new  home 
of  the  great  French  poet.  Regrets  and  un- 
certainties were  gradually  succeeded  by  the 
more  or  less  settled  condition  of  temporary 
resignation  and  social  reunion.  In  all  the 
movements  of  the  exiled  group,  No.  3,  Marine 
Terrace,  seemed  a  rallying-point  for  their  ex- 
change of  opinion,  for  discussion  of  the  daily 
events  in  France  from  which,  for  the  time 
being,  nearly  fourscore  of  the  leading  legis- 
lators of  the  Republic  had  been  banished. 
Here  their  theories  crystallised  into  plans, 


32 


IRomance  ot 


their  hope  into  such  action  as  they  dared  to 
undertake. 

In  Jersey  the  poet  remained  for  nearly  four 
years,  wielding  his  pen  indefatigably,  for 
the  most  part  in  denunciation  of  Louis 
Napoleon.  So  great  was  his  hatred  of  the 
Emperor  that  he  allowed  his  vindictiveness  to 
outrun  his  discretion.  In  1855  visits  were 
exchanged  between  Queen  Victoria  and  the 
Emperor  Louis  Napoleon.  Hugo  and  his 
fellow  exiles,  who  perceived  in  this  recogni- 
tion of  the  Emperor  by  the  British  Sovereign 
a  great  aid  to  the  consolidation  of  his  power, 
waxed  furious,  and  in  a  newspaper  that  they 
had  established  in  Jersey,  entitled  L'Homme, 
fell  foul  of  Queen  Victoria.  In  its  columns 
appeared  a  letter  addressed  to  the  Queen  by 
three  French  exiles,  then  resident  in  London, 
inquiring  her  Majesty's  object  in  going  to 
Paris,  and  asserting  that  in  doing  so  she  "had 
sacrificed  everything — her  dignity  as  a  queen, 
her  scruples  as  a  woman,  her  pride  as  an  aris- 
tocrat, her  feelings  as  an  Englishwoman,  her 


Hauteville  House,  Guernsey.      From  the  street. 


Dictor  1>u0o  anfc 


.  H>rouet 


33 


rank,  her  race,  her  sex,  everything,  even  to 
her  shame.  .  .  even  to  her  honour."  This 
was  not  merely  nonsense:  it  was  in  the  highest 
degree  impolitic,  for  the  people  of  Jersey  are 
loyal.  They  attacked  the  publication  office 
of  L'Homme  and  demolished  its  plant,  where- 
upon the  Governor  ordered  the  editorial  staff 
of  that  paper  to  quit  the  island.  Hugo  left 
Jersey  for  Guernsey,  and  landed  at  St.  Peter 
Port  on  October  31,  1855. 


Expelled 
from 


34 


Ube  IRomance  ot 


Dautevllle 

fjouse 


II 


poet's  "Borne  witb  Guernsey  jfolfe 

E  settlement  of  the  poet  in  Guernsey 
marks  the  beginning  of  an  era  of  great 
mental  activity,  fortunately  more  literary  than 
political.  The  impression  one  receives  when 
first  looking  upon  the  plain  black  front  of 
Hauteville  House,  where  Hugo  took  up  his 
abode,  is  that  the  poet  was  not  greatly  more 
fortunate  in  his  choice  of  a  residence  in 
Guernsey  than  he  had  been  in  Jersey  ;  but 
closer  acquaintance  with  the  place  proves  that 
impression  to  be  fallacious.  Certainly  the 
exterior  conveys  no  adequate  idea  either  of 
the  extent  or  of  the  beauty  of  the  interior. 
It  is  situated  about  midway  between  St. 
Peter  Port  and  the  Haute  Ville,  and  bears  that 
aspect  of  substantial  —  if  gloomy — comfort 


IDfctor  1>uao  an&  fl&me.  Brouet 


35 


which  distinguishes  so  many  Georgian  man- 
sions in  English  provincial  towns.  With  re- 
gard to  its  interior  beauty — and  it  is  beautiful 
— that  is  due  to  its  quaint  furnishing,  every 
item  of  which  testifies  to  the  artistic  taste  and 
craftsmanship  of  the  genius  who  for  so  many 
years  inhabited  it,  and  who  must  have  ex- 
pected to  end  his  days  within  its  walls. 

When,  in  1870,  the  empire  of  which  Louis 
Napoleon  was  the  head  and  front  fell  like  a 
house  of  cards  in  a  gale,  and  the  victorious 
Germans  caged  him  and  marched,  almost  un- 
checked, on  Paris,  Hugo  left  Guernsey  to  re- 
suscitate, so  far  as  he  could  with  pen  and 
speech,  his  bleeding  and  ruined  country.  He 
retained  possession  of  Hauteville  House  ;  but 
thereafter  it  ceased  to  be  his  home,  and  became 
a  seaside  resort,  to  be  visited  only  in  summer 
by  the  poet's  family  and  their  friends.  After 
Hugo's  death,  in  1885,  it  became  the  property 
of  his  grandchildren,  its  present  owners, 
who  very  wisely  maintain  it  just  as  it  was  in 
Hugo's  day.  The  furniture,  quaint  carvings, 


fiugo'0 
fteturn  to 

ffrancc 


IRomance  of 


Hfjugo 
Sbrine 


grotesque  drawings  by  the  poet  himself,  are 
all  there,  and  may  be  seen  by  visitors  who  ex- 
press a  wish  to  inspect  them.  It  is  a  Hugo 
museum,  a  Hugo  shrine,  and  is  to  Frenchmen 
all  that  Abbotsford  is  to  Scotsmen,  with,  for 
some,  an  additional  political  interest. 

On  entering  the  house  the  visitor  is  con- 
fronted by  two  bronze  medallions,  representing 
the  poet  and  his  daughter.  In  the  dining- 
room  are  some  Delft  or  glazed  earthernware 
panels,  and  near  the  mantelpiece  is  a  little 
porcelain  saltcellar  made  by  a  pupil  of  Michael 
Angelo,  valued  at  fifteen  thousand  francs. 
There  is  only  one  other  specimen,  and  that 
belongs  to  M.  de  Rothschild.  At  the  entrance 
to  the  billiard-room,  on  the  right,  is  a  picture 
of  the  coronation  of  Inez  de  Castro  after  her 
death.  The  walls  and  ceiling  of  the  reception- 
room  are  hung  with  Gobelin  tapestry,  one  rep- 
resenting a  party  of  falconers,  with  Louis  XIV. 
and  Madame  de  Pompadour  on  horseback. 
The  furniture  is  very  fine.  The  mantelpiece 
of  the  red  drawing-room  is  adorned  with  a 


IDlctor  t>u0o  ant)  jflDme.  2>rouet 


37 


knight's  belt  made  of  silver  with  gold  thread, 
and  inlaid  with  precious  stones.  There  are 
four  gilt  statues  from  the  Palace  of  the  Doges 
at  Venice,  and  a  curious  Spanish  brazier.  In 
the  middle  of  the  room  is  a  table  inlaid  with 
ivory,  formerly  belonging  to  Charles  II.  of 
England.  In  the  blue  drawing-room  the  man- 
telpiece is  ornamented  with  four  little  columns, 
carved  and  gilt,  from  the  bed  of  Francis  I.  In 
this  room  is  a  table,  inlaid  with  ivory,  once 
in  the  possession  of  a  king  of  France;  an 
armchair,  once  the  property  of  a  French 
peer,  with  armorial  bearings  embroidered  on 
amber  satin,  and  some  vases  of  Chinese  por- 
celain of  inestimable  value.  There  is  some 
tapestry  of  white  material  with  gold  thread 
formerly  belonging  to  Queen  Christine  of 
Sweden.  In  a  room  on  the  second  floor  is  an 
ivory  cupboard  of  great  value.  Near  the 
mantelpiece  are  panels  with  very  ancient 
Mexican  carvings.  The  chandelier  is  of  carved 
oak,  from  a  design  by  Victor  Hugo.  There 
is  also  a  table  of  carved  oak,  which  once 


tjugo'8 
Ureasures 


335691 


Ube  TRomance  of 


Ube 

flDaster'3 
Stu&v 


belonged  to  the  daughters  of  Louis  XVI.,  and 
some  Gobelin  tapestry.  The  Garibaldi  room, 
so  called  from  its  having  been  prepared  for 
that  famous  patriot,  but  to  which  he  never 
came,  has  a  door  ornamented  with  carved 
work  (vine  leaves  and  clusters  of  grapes) ;  a 
magnificent  carved  oak  bed,  at  the  foot  of 
which  is  engraven  Nox.  Mors.  Lux.;  La 
Nuit.  La  Mort.  La  Lumiere.  (Night.  Death. 
Light.)  Above  the  pillow  is  a  little  ivory  head 
with  two  faces,  one  representing  Life  and  the 
other  Death.  On  the  walls  are  tapestries 
representing  episodes  in  the  life  of  the  Virgin. 
The  third  floor  is  divided  into  two  attics. 
One  of  them  has  a  glass  roof,  and  commands 
a  splendid  view  of  the  town,  harbour,  archi- 
pelago, and,  on  a  clear  day,  the  coast  of 
Cotentin.  This  room  was  used  by  the  mas- 
ter as  his  study.  In  a  corner  is  a  plain  board, 
painted  black,  fixed  against  the  wall.  It  can 
be  raised  or  lowered  at  will.  On  this  board 
Victor  Hugo  wrote  most  of  his  works  dur- 
ing his  exile,  particularly  the  whole  of  Les 


Wctor 


an&  flDme.  HJrouet 


39 


Miserables.  The  other  attic,  which  is  very 
small,  was  the  poet's  bedroom.  It  contains 
Victor  Hugo's  bed ;  a  sabre  that  once  belonged 
to  his  father;  a  portrait  of  Madame  Hugo,  and 
two  water-colours  representing  the  poet  on 
his  death-bed. 

Guernsey  people  recall  with  pleasure  the 
interest  the  poet  manifested  in  old  oak  furni- 
ture. He  seemed  to  dig  it  up  everywhere, 
they  say,  from  castle  to  cowshed.  In  the 
work  of  cleaning  and  refitting  it,  Mr.  Gore 
was  his  principal  woodworker  and  carver. 
The  poet  made  his  own  designs  for  many  of 
the  odd  pieces  which  still  adorn  Hauteville 
House.  They  are  remarkable  for  their  gro- 
tesqueness,  a  quality  that  is  to  be  observed  in 
his  drawings  generally.  On  the  wall  in  one 
of  the  reception-rooms  of  Hauteville  House  is 
a  sketch  made  by  the  poet  with  lampblack 
and  chalk.  It  is  the  figure  of  a  man  with  de- 
moniacal face,  dangling  from  a  scaffold.  It  is 
probably  a  sketch  of  a  scene  in  L'Homme  gut 
Rit,  where,  on  the  bleak  coast  of  Portland,  the 


poet  anS> 
tdoofc 
Carver 


IRomance  of 


•fclfeous 
Caricas 
turcs 


disfigured  child,  "  Gwynplaine,"  was  horrified 
by  coming  upon  a  similar  spectacle  on  a 
tempestuous  winter  night.  The  grotesque, 
the  uncanny,  the  ugly,  the  hideous,  and  the 
terrifying  seem  to  have  been  the  pictorial 
accompaniment  in  a  mind  of  poesy  unsur- 
passed for  the  delicacy  of  its  beauty  and  the 
rhythm  of  its  song.  It  was  a  strange  and  a 
weird  combination  that  actuated  Victor  Hugo's 
genius.  I  have  before  me  an  old  photograph 
of  a  pen  drawing  by  the  poet  which  is  a 
striking  example  of  the  pictures  that  dwelt 
behind  that  high  white  dome  above  his 
brows.  It  is  crowded  with  the  grotesque 
forms  and  faces  of  his  enemies  sweeping 
around  his  pedestalled  bust,  each  face  wear- 
ing a  sneer,  a  grimace,  a  look  of  venom  or 
disdain.  In  the  midst  of  all  stands  the  poet's 
bust  crowned  with  laurel.  Calm  defiance 
rests  upon  the  face,  while  all  around  con- 
fusion sweeps  the  earth  and  sky.  An  insane 
conception  and  a  clever  composition. 
The  following  verse,  written  in  April,  1839, 


I 


Dictor 


an&  flDme.  Brouct 


when  he  was  thirty-seven  years  of  age,  in- 
dicates the  poet's  consciousness  of  this  duality 
of  vision: 

"  As  in  a  pond  that  sleeps  o'erhung  by  trees, 
Two  things  at  once  in  many  a  sail  one  sees — 
The  sky,  which  paints  the  surface  pure  and  calm, 
With  all  its  rays  and  clouds  the  heart  to  charm ; 
And  then  the  depth,  slime,  hideous,  dark  and  dead, 
Where  foul  black  reptiles  swarm  and  vaguely  tread."  * 

Apropos  of  Victor  Hugo's  admiration  for 
carved  oak,  I  was  told  that  whenever  the  op- 
portunity presented  itself  he  would  purchase 
antique  chests  in  that  wood.  He  acquired 
many  specimens  in  the  country  parishes  of 
Guernsey,  rescuing  some  from  barns,  stables, 
and  cowsheds  at  the  cost  of  a  few  francs. 
These  chests  he  afterwards  carefully  renovated. 
Mr.  T.  M.  Gore,  of  Guernsey,  who  worked  as 
a  carpenter  at  Hauteville  House,  writing  April 
10,  1903,  says:  "Hugo  was  very  quick  in 
making  designs  for  carving  or  engraving  on 
wood.  He  would  sketch  either  with  chalk  or 

*  Dean  Carrington's  translation. 


OI6  Cbeete 


IRomance  of 


pencil.  Frequently,  after  a  lapse  of  several 
days,  he  would  ask  me  to  return  a  panel,  say- 
ing that  he  had  omitted  to  put  in  a  bird  on 
a  branch  or  a  flower  on  a  stem.  I  possess 
three  designs  drawn  by  Victor  Hugo." 

Hauteville  House  is  in  charge  of  two  courte- 
ous and  intelligent  ladies,  who  afford  visitors 
every  facility  for  viewing  the  art  treasures 
which  surrounded  the  great  poet  during  the 
larger  part  of  his  exile.  I  spent  a  pleasant  and 
instructive  time  in  examining  all  that  is  to  be 
seen  there,  and  left  in  the  belief  that  I  was  now 
acquainted  with  all  that  pertained  to  Hugo  in 
Guernsey.  But  in  that  I  was  greatly  in  error. 

The  small  side  and  the  "  infinite  little- 
nesses "  of  a  great  life  teach  us  more  of  the 
human  elements  in  illustrious  character  than 
the  pomp  and  spectacle  which  distinguish  it 
from  the  mass  of  mankind.  It  must  have 
been  a  great  privilege  for  some  of  the  Guern- 
sey folk  who  are  still  living  to  have  known 
Victor  Hugo  in  his  exile  home,  as  they  must 
have  known  him  from  the  tales  and  anecdotes 


Dtctor  DUQO  an&  flDme.  Drouet 


43 


I  heard  in  the  island.  Idiosyncrasies  and 
foibles  were  not  lacking  in  the  great  French 
master  any  more  than  in  those  of  meaner 
talents.  His  tailor  and  barber,  his  bootmaker 
and  the  binder  of  his  manuscript,  his  stationer 
and  carpenter,  all  have  something  to  say  of  the 
genius  upon  whom  they  gazed  with  awe  as 
he  sauntered  up  and  down  the  hilly  streets 
of  St.  Peter  Port. 

Mr.  Henry  Turner,  for  many  years  Hugo's 
bookbinder,  and  one  of  the  most  distinguished 
of  the  living  Guernsey  men  who  were  person- 
ally acquainted  with  the  poet,  relates  how 
jealously  Victor  Hugo  guarded  his  manu- 
scripts when  he  handed  them  to  Mr.  Turner 
to  be  bound.  The  confidence  of  Victor  Hugo 
in  his  binder  was  absolute,  yet  for  all  that,  the 
rule  was  that  before  dark  every  night  the 
manuscripts  must  be  returned  to  the  poet  to 
be  safely  locked  in  a  fire-proof  chest. 

These  bound  manuscripts  are  now  all  to  be 
seen  in  the  Bibliotheque  Nationale  in  Paris. 

I  am  here  reminded  of  the  story  related  by 


tjugo'e 
flPanu= 
script 


44 


TRomance  ot 


Mr.  T.  B.  Banks,  the  Guernsey  stationer,  who 

poet's 

was  well  known  to  Victor  Hugo.  In  Les 
Travailleurs  de  la  Mer  you  will  find  the  pic- 
ture of  a  Scotch  Highlander  playing  the  bag- 
pipe. Throughout  the  novel  the  author  calls 
the  musical  instrument  a  bugpipe.  When 
the  Guernsey  people  remonstrated  with  him, 
the  poet  insisted  that  bugpipe  was  correct 
and  refused  to  alter  it.  The  controversy  was 
vigorously  pursued,  especially  by  those  in 
Guernsey  who  sprang  from  the  North  Coun- 
try and  who  did  not  purpose  submitting  to  a 
burlesque  upon  a  musical  instrument  which 
was  so  much  a  part  of  their  national  life. 
"  Monsieur  Hugo,  you  are  wrong,"  they  pro- 
tested, "there  is  no  such  word  as  bugpipe. 
It  is  bagpipe — bagpipe — bagpipe — bag — I" 
"  It  is  bugpipe!  "  retorted  the  poet,  "  because 
I,  Victor  Hugo,  poet,  dramatist,  peer  of 
France,  etc.,  say  so.  What  I  write  becomes 
right  because  I  write  it.  The  howling  hulla- 
baloo looks  like  a  bug,  and  I  say  it  shall  be  a 
bugpipe!" 


Victor  Hugo  in  his  garden  (Hauteville  House). 


Dictor  tm0o  ant)  flDme.  Brouet 


45 


"That,"  says  Mr.  Banks,  "is  only  one  of 
many  instances  where  the  poet's  imperious 
obstinacy  led  him  into  the  misuse  of  names 
and — facts." 

The  story  is  current  in  Guernsey  that  the 
poet  was  in  the  habit  of  taking  his  bath  on 
the  roof  of  Hauteville  House  in  full  view  of  the 
universe  or  anybody  who,  having  risen  early 
enough,  might  be  abroad  on  the  island. 
When  I  visited  Hauteville  House,  I  found  my 
way  to  the  roof  through  the  small  bed- 
room, where  the  great  man  used  to  sleep 
on  a  thin  mattress  raised  four  inches  from 
the  floor.  From  this  room  a  French  case- 
ment window  opens  south  upon  the  roof, 
and  affords  a  view  of  St.  Malo  on  the  French 
coast,  with  the  Island  of  Jersey  and  its  group 
of  islets  glinting  like  emeralds  strung  across 
the  view.  In  winter  the  scene  on  the  Guern- 
sey coast  is  often  of  a  wild  and  angry  as- 
pect as  the  sea  lashes  the  rocky  beach. 
In  any  mood,  the  view  is  superb,  and  it 
seems  to  me  that  even  a  lesser  genius  than 


DBatbfnti 
ontbe 
•Koof 


46 


Ube  IRomance  of 


fmgo's 
love  for 
Children 


Hugo  might  have  been  exalted  in  its  pres- 
ence. 

Mr.  Thomas  Gore,  writing  to  me  on  the 
subject  of  the  poet's  peculiar  habit  of  ablution, 
says: 

"Victor  Hugo  slept  in  an  attic,  not  a  very 
comfortable  room  or  bed,  simply  a  few  boards 
a  few  inches  off  the  floor.  He  used  to  bathe 
himself  standing  in  a  tub  of  water  on  the 
roof  near  the  rain  gutter.  Winter  and  sum- 
mer, even  when  it  was  freezing,  I  have  seen 
him  there,  often  as  late  as  nine  o'clock." 

Of  the  poet's  tender  regard  for  poor  children 
many  beautiful  things  are  said  in  Guernsey. 
There  are  men  and  women  of  from  forty-five 
to  fifty  years  of  age  living  in  Guernsey  who 
recall  Victor  Hugo's  benefactions  to  them  in 
their  childhood.  Every  Thursday,  they  re- 
late, the  garden  back  of  Hauteville  House  was 
the  scene  of  a  herd  of  fifty  boys  and  girls 
being  fed  under  the  poet's  personal  super- 
vision. In  winter,  or  when  the  weather 
was  inclement,  this  ravenous,  hurly-burly  little 


IDictor  tmso  anfc  flDme,  Brouet 


47 


band  would  be  taken  into  the  house,  often  to 
the  consternation  and  despair  of  the  poet's 
domestics.  At  each  of  these  dinners,  which 
were  served  at  twelve  o'clock,  the  poet  tasted 
the  principal  dishes  to  assure  himself,  before 
his  tiny  guests  fell  to  the  feast,  that  all  had 
been  cooked  according  to  his  theories  of  I' art 
de  cuisine. 

I  have  been  so  fortunate  as  to  procure  an 
old  photograph  of  the  poet  with  his  humble 
band  of  Guernsey  children.  There  are  nearly 
forty  of  them  in  the  group,  and  judging  from 
their  bright,  contented  little  faces  I  infer  that 
the  picture  is  a  record  made  after  one  of  these 
periodic  feasts.  He  loved  little  children  with 
caressing  tenderness.  His  poems  on  child- 
life  humanly  express  the  religion  of  mother- 
hood. 

In  this  connection  the  late  Mr.  F.  H.  Blicq, 
the  poet's  Guernsey  barber,  was  the  object  of 
much  of  Hugo's  wit.  Mr.  Blicq  had  seven- 
teen children  and  was  justly  proud  of  his 
large  family.  The  poet  considered  seventeen 


a  poet's 

Cenevo* 
lence 


IRomance  of 


t>cro 
Worship 


children  a  great  blessing  to  any  man — "pro- 
vided they  did  not  crowd  him  off  the  island." 
No  one  was  readier  with  a  bon  mot  than 
Victor  Hugo  during  the  later  years  of  his  exile, 
when  much  of  his  wrath  upon  the  vain  head 
of  "Napoleon  le  Petit  "  had  spent  itself,  and  a 
long  period  of  literary  activity  had  mellowed 
his  recollection  of  the  troublous  times  of  '48 
to  '52. 

There  has  never  been  a  period  of  indiffer- 
ence to  anything  relating,  however  remotely, 
to  Hugo.  So  far  from  that,  probably  few 
other  men  have  ever  been  the  subject  of  such 
abject  hero-worship.  Indeed,  I  am  informed 
that  when  Hugo  lived  in  Guernsey,  visitors 
would  dog  his  footsteps  along  the  seashore 
and  pick  up  pebbles  upon  which  he  had  trod- 
den, to  preserve  as  mementos  of  the  great 
master,  while  it  was  the  custom  of  the  late 
Mr.  Blicq  to  preserve  the  cuttings  from  the 
great  man's  hair  and  beard.  What  an  instance 
of  adulation  this  would  indicate,  if  1  did  not 
have  to  spoil  the  story  by  relating — on  the 


IDfctor  Tbuoo  an&  /iDnic.  JDrouet 


49 


authority  of  Mr.  Turner  and  the  surviving 
members  of  Mr.  Blicq's  family — that  the  poet 
insisted  upon  appropriating  these  cuttings 
himself,  and  bestowing  them — no  one  says 
where. 


Ureasurefc 


TRomance  of 


H  Journal 

of  Exile 


III 

Xiterarg  Ureasure*trove 

EADERS  of  Hugo  lore  may  recall  a  re- 
markable  article  from  the  pen  of  M. 
Octave  Uzanne  which  appeared  in  an  Ameri- 
can magazine  in  November,  1892.  That  article 
describes  the  vicissitudes  of  a  "Journal  of 
Exile,"  consisting  of  two  thousand  pages  of 
close  writing,  and  a  thousand  original  letters 
addressed  to  the  poet.  This  journal  and  bun- 
dle of  letters  were  contained  in  six  parcels 
which,  shortly  after  the  death  of  Hugo,  were 
disposed  of  to  a  local  dealer,  on  the  occasion 
of  a  housecleaning,  as  so  much  waste-paper. 
Later,  they  fell  into  the  hands  of  a  well-known 
London  archivist  and  dealer  in  autographs, 
who,  on  examination,  found  the  two  thousand 
pages  of  manuscript  to  be  in  the  handwriting 


IDtctor  tmgo  anO  flDme.  Drouet 


of  Francois,  that  son  of  Victor  Hugo  who 
translated  Shakespeare  into  French.  On  the 
occasion  of  my  visit  to  Guernsey  I  had  the 
good  fortune  to  meet  Mr.  W.  A.  Luff,  the 
gentleman  who  rescued  this  manuscript  and 
the  letters  from  the  local  junk-dealer,  into 
whose  hands  they  had  fallen,  and  from  him 
learned  the  story  of  how  the  bundles,  after 
having  been  submitted  to  Mr.  Swinburne,  the 
poet,  for  an  estimate  of  their  value,  and  by 
him  rejected  as  of  no  interest  to  the  collectors 
of  Hugo  manuscripts,  reached  the  London 
archivist,  who  now  prizes  them  beyond  price. 
The  manuscript  is  a  veritable  journal  of  ex- 
ile, covering  a  period  between  July,  1852, 
when  Hugo  was  still  in  Jersey,  and  the  end 
of  1856,  with  annotations  here  and  there  in  the 
master's  hand.  M.  Uzanne  says  of  the  com- 
plete manuscript  of  which  this  is  part  :  "  It  is 
a  minute  relation  of  the  conversation  of  Victor 
Hugo  with  his  family,  his  friends,  and  distin- 
guished visitors,  that  seems  to  have  been 
written  day  by  day.  Victor  Hugo  must  have 


Blost 


script 


"Romance  of 


H  literary 


revised  the  journal  with  care.  The  corre- 
spondence extends  over  a  period  of  fifty 
years." 

That  such  a  journal  intime  and  so  many 
private  letters  should  have  been  preserved  so 
long  and  then  finally  discarded  as  waste-paper 
can  only  be  accounted  for  by  supposing  it  to 
be  the  result  of  an  accident.  Many  people 
thought  so  who  read  M.  Uzanne's  article  in 
1892;  and  some  conversations  that  I  had  with 
Mr.  Luff  and  with  Mr.  Henry  Turner  confirm 
me  in  that  belief.  No  author  was  more  careful 
of  his  manuscripts  than  Victor  Hugo,  or — must 
it  be  said  ? — more  keenly  alive  to  their  value 
in  the  years  to  come.  Most  of  his  works  — 
particularly  those  written  in  Guernsey  —  are 
written  upon  paper  measuring  twenty  by 
thirty-two  inches,  and  were  bound  by  Mr. 
Turner  in  white  vellum,  the  letters  of  the  title 
being  cut  out  and  painted  in  magenta,  accord- 
ing to  the  poet's  special  directions. 

These  facts  did  not  at  all  prepare  me  for  the 
astonishing  discovery  of  a  parcel  of  Hugo  pa- 


IPictor  Tbiujo  an&  flftmc.  Brouet 


53 


pers  in  the  possession  of  Mr.  Luff,  whom,  in 
the  course  of  my  enquiries  among  Guernsey 
men  about  the  poet's  life  and  habits  upon  the 
island,  I  had,  as  I  have  said,  the  good  fortune 
to  meet.  I  was  further  astonished  to  learn 
that  these  papers  had  never  been  examined  by 
a  literary  man.  Their  history  is  almost  iden- 
tical with  that  of  the  papers  dealt  with  by  M. 
Uzanne  in  his  article  of  November,  1892,  of 
which  they  are  properly  a  part,  though  sub- 
sequently discovered  and,  by  persons  ignorant 
of  their  value,  turned  out  of  Hauteville  House, 
as  I  have  narrated.  These  interesting  papers 
are  now  before  me.  They  consist  of  a  small 
section  of  the  "Journal  of  Exile,"  in  the  hand- 
writing of  Francois  Hugo,  with  an  annotation 
by  the  poet;  a  rough  draft  of  the  letter  from 
Hugo  to  Alexandre  Dumas,  signed  V.  H.; 
two  letters  written  by  General  Hugo  (father 
of  Victor  Hugo);  a  letter  to  Hugo,  signed 
Claire,  a  young  woman  who  had  become  en- 
amoured of  the  poet ;  a  considerable  number 
of  amorous  and  cryptic  letters  from  Madame 


(Bold  ant> 

S>1088 


54 


"Romance  ot 


Juliette  Drouet,   the  beautiful  mistress,   who 

Dugo'0 


Journal 


was  perhaps  the  star  of  much  of  Hugo's  verse 
of  a  certain  motif;  and  a  few  miscellaneous 
letters  and  papers. 

In  Francois  Hugo's  journal,  the  poet's  son 
has  recorded  many  trivialities,  estimated  from 
the  point  of  view  of  to-day.  But  in  this  mass 
of  personal  chronicle  I  am  enabled  here  and 
there  to  appropriate  an  occasional  item  of  real 
interest  to  the  unwritten  historical  aspect  of 
the  great  French  Socialist,  and  expose  an 
opinion  uttered  by  him  now  and  then  which 
may  strike  one  more  for  its  novelty  than  for 
its  philosophic  value. 

It  was  at  the  funeral  of  Couvet.  Victor 
Hugo,  his  sons  Charles  and  Francois,  and  the 
exile  Ribeyralles,  had  followed  the  procession 
to  the  grave.  Couvet's  interment  and  the 
burial  speech  of  Ribeyralles  created  an  ex- 
tremely sad  impression  on  all  the  exiles. 
They  return  to  Marine  Terrace  and  contem- 
plate their  puppet-show  on  earth.  The  talk 
drifts  to  poets,  and  Victor  Hugo,  who  had 


Franfois  Hugo,  son  of  the  poet. 


Dtctor  Du0o  anfc  fliMnc.  Drouet 


55 


evidently  met  with  opposition  to  his  theory, 
"  maintains  that  poets  are  magicians,  but  that 
all  magicians  are  not  poets;  that  Shakespeare 
had  the  gift  of  divination  like  Alexis,  but  that 
Alexis  could  not  have  written  Hamlet  like 
Shakespeare." 

From  this  the  conversation  turned  to 
religion : 

"The  city  of  the  Mormons,"  said  Victor 
Hugo,  "has  20,000  inhabitants,  and  there 
are  60,000  Mormons  altogether.  Every 
house  has  its  garden.  All  the  houses  are  of 
the  same  size.  In  the  centre  of  the  city  is  the 
Mormon  Temple.  In  a  short  time  they  have 
won  many  proselytes  and  found  a  great  deal 
of  money.  That  shows  the  power  of  a  re- 
ligious idea  of  the  Invisible  World." 

On  friendship  the  poet's  views  were  defin- 
ite. Judged  by  his  private  letters  and  his 
Lime  de  I' Anniversaire  (which  he  wrote  for 
his  mistress,  Madame  Drouet),  his  principle 
of  love  was  as  definite  and  pure  as  the  facets 
of  the  diamond.  Alas,  for  the  caprice  of  this 


tTbc  poet'0 
Dicta 


Ube  IRomance  of 


Santca 
36cnvc's 


latter  quality  in  so  great  a  life!  as  we  shall 
presently  see  in  the  subsequent  impassioned 
letters  on  the  one  hand,  and  the  poet's  cathol- 
icity of  conduct  on  the  other. 

Every  man  of  forceful  character  has  his 
enemies  and  his  ardent  friends.  The  plasticity 
of  some  lives  inspires  neither  great  friendship 
nor  enmity  worth  notice.  Hugo  lived  with, 
but  wrought  above,  a  certain  set  of  cavilling 
critics  of  the  time,  who,  excelling  him  often 
in  rational  political  sense,  used  their  facile 
talents  against  the  Romantic  School  and  its 
deity.  Sainte-Beuve,  in  time,  became  infected 
with  a  rancorous  jealousy  of  Hugo's  ascend- 
ancy in  the  lettered  world  and  flayed  him 
with  an  insidious  sarcasm  unworthy  of  his 
own  great  parts. 

"Yes,"  said  Hugo  to  the  brilliant  little 
company  about  him,  "  I  admit  candidly,  I 
defend  my  friends  and  attack  my  enemies. 
Whatever  may  be  the  faults  of  Theophile 
Gautier  now,  I  defend  him.  I  remember  and 
will  always  remember  that  after  the  failure  of 


Uictoc  Tfougo  ant)  /iDinc.  Brouet 


57 


Le  Roi  s' Amuse  all  my  enemies  triumphantly 
fell  upon  me  saying  that  never  had  such  an 
execrable  production  been  presented.  Theo- 
phile  Gautier,  who  was  then  writing  for  a 
small  journal,  wrote  in  regard  to  Le  Roi 
s' Amuse:  "If  we  lived  at  a  time  when 
there  was  any  respect  for  poetry,  Victor 
Hugo,  crowned  with  laurels,  should  ride  in  a 
golden  car  drawn  by  four  white  horses  before 
all  the  people  of  Paris  on  their  knees." 

"  Yes,"  continued  Hugo,  "  I  defend  Gautier, 
I  defend  even  Mery.  I  am  profoundly 
grateful  for  good,  and  profoundly  hurt  by 
evil.  I  defend  my  friends  to  the  last,  until 
the  day  when  it  is  proved  they  are  not  my 
friends.  On  that  day  I  become  their  enemy." 

In  the  course  of  the  evening — exile  being 
still  a  brief  experience — the  poet  said: 

"  If  I  returned  to  France,  I  would  refuse 
office.  Strong  without  office,  I  feel  myself 
weak  with  office.  I  have  written  this :  I  have 
accepted  exile,  I  will  refuse  power." 

Thus  early  in  1852,  soon  after  his  flight  from 


Oauttcr's 
praise 


Ube  IRomance  of 


Paris  on  December  n,    1851,  the  man  who 

Cbance 

was  great  as  poet,  over-zealous,  tactless,  and 

debilitated  by  exaggeration  as  a  politician, 
dwells  upon  the  defeat  of  his  misdirected 
aims — a  profitless  reflection  for  a  mind  whose 
power  was  at  its  least  in  civic  strife. 

Ribeyralles  and  Thomas,  dine  with  Victor 
Hugo.  Thomas,  having  spent  a  long  time  in 
several  prisons,  ends  his  life  in  exile.  "  He 
merits  such  a  fate,"  say  his  fellows;  "prison 
and  exile  are  the  fine  rewards  of  noble 
hearts." 

"Thomas  is  now  a  member  of  the  Pro- 
scription Club  at  Jersey.  His  talk  is  interest- 
ing and  vivid.  At  the  end  of  the  meeting, 
Ribeyralles  continues  the  biography  of  Citizen 
Pas  de  Chance:  'One  day  Pas  de  Chance  met 
Voltaire.  Pas  de  Chance  said  to  Voltaire: 
"Once  I  killed  a  priest."  "Shake  hands," 
said  Voltaire,  holding  out  his  hand.  However, 
one  day  Voltaire  was  himself  knocked  down 
by  Pas  de  Chance.'  "  * 

*  From  the  unpublished  journal  of  Franfois  Hugo. 


IDictor  f>u0o  anfc  flDme,  JDrouet 


59 


One  is  irresistibly  moved  at  the  humour  of 
this  spectacle.  Citizen  Pas  de  Chance!  Let 
us  learn  who  he  was. 

Attributed  to  Victor  Hugo,  in  his  son's 
journal  is  the  following  account  of  Pas  de 
Chance: 

"The  history  of  Pas  de  Chance  is  one  of 
the  most  amusing  that  could  be  related.  It 
should  even  be  written  if  one  wrote  such 
things.  He  arrived  one  morning  at  Brussels 
in  rags.  On  his  forehead  were  the  words  Pas 
de  Chance  (No  luck). 

"On  these  three  words  were  two  sabre 
scars.  Although  the  habit  of  the  exiles  was 
to  give  a  cordial  reception  to  every  fresh  exile, 
they  received  Pas  de  Chance  with  some  dis- 
trust. They  asked  Pas  de  Chance  to  show 
his  certificates.  Pas  de  Chance  showed  sus- 
picious letters.  Among  them  was  one  from 
Martin  de  Loiret  full  of  mistakes  in  spelling. 
Beauvais,  however,  admitted  Pas  de  Chance 
into  their  circle,  but  one  fine  day  they  began 
to  deny  his  right  to  the  title  of  exile.  '  You 


Spurious 
Exile 


6o 


IRomance  of 


Eugene      have  not  been  proscribed '  they  said  to  him. 

Sue 

'I  shall  return  to  France,'  said  Pas  de  Chance; 
and  the  following  day  he  took  the  boat  and 
landed  at  St.  Malo." 

Of  Eugene  Sue,  Victor  Hugo  uttered  the 
following: 

"The  other  day  I  read  a  novel  by  Eugene 
Sue  in  the  Nation,  called  the  'Jouffrey  Family.' 
It  is  extremely  vulgar  and  bad,  and  written  in 
the  style  of  a  porter,  but  it  is  most  striking 
in  its  realism." 

It  seems  Charles  Hugo  had  a  relentless  hatred 
of  kings,  and  repeated  what  he  had  often  said, 
namely,  that  all  kings,  even  the  best,  were 
scoundrels.  With  this  his  sister,  Julie  Hugo, 
disagreed,  and  cited  Marcus  Aurelius  as  an 
example  of  kingly  virtue. 

"Ah,  yes,"  said  Charles;  "he  persecuted 
the  Christians!" 

Just  as  this  family  controversy  promised 
trouble,  the  poet,  by  parental  right,  intervened 
and  said: 

"  Marcus  Aurelius  was  no  angel,  but  he  had 


Paul  Meurice,  friend  and  literary  executor  of  Hugo. 


Victor  13UQO  ant)  flDme.  2)rouet 


61 


a  rare  mind.  The  philosophy  of  Marcus  Au- 
relius  surpassed  Christianity,  which,  however, 
has  rendered  a  greater  service  to  the  heart  of 
mankind  than  to  the  human  mind.  Marcus 
Aurelius  was  a  philosopher,  a  Socratist.  If  he 
had  been  told  of  the  mysteries  of  the  Christ- 
ian religion,  he  would  have  regarded  these 
mysteries  as  superstitions.  His  mind  placed 
him  on  a  higher  level  than  his  material  posi- 
tion. He  was  higher  than  his  time." 

"  Marriage,"  said  Charles  Hugo,  "  is  at  the 
present  day  an  infamous  institution.  A  mar- 
ried woman  is  a  slave,  and  as  mean  as  a 
woman  of  the  town."  He  vehemently  de- 
clared he  would  never  marry. 

"Charles,"  said  his  father,  "you  throw 
yourself  forward  like  an  ox  to  break  down 
gates  opened  by  me  twenty-nine  years  ago. 
In  your  talk,  too  often  you  reclose  gates  you 
had  previously  opened." 

This  conversation  occured  in  1852.  It  is  in- 
teresting to  note  that  Victor  Hugo  was,  there- 
fore, only  twenty-one  years  of  age  when  he  had 


Charles 

1>U00 

on 

Aarriage 


62 


IRomance  of 


anb 
Scountrcls 


"  opened  the  gates, "  as  he  says,  upon  the  insti- 
tution of  marriage,  and  this  early  adverse  view 
upon  the  subject  may  account  for  many  of  the 
irregular  intimacies  which  characterised  his 
life  during  all  that  time  when  his  letters  to 
Juliette  Drouet  would,  in  the  absence  of  other 
and  contradictory  evidence,  indicate  at  least 
constancy  to  wife  and  mistress. 

Francois  ascribes  to  his  father  the  following 
aphorism : 

"Kings  may  have  good  natural  tendencies, 
but  they  are  made  scoundrels  by  their  position. 
Generally  speaking,  kings  are  scoundrels." 

And  here  is  another: 

"  The  true  king  at  the  time  of  Herod  was 
not  Herod,  but  John  the  Baptist.  The  true 
king  at  the  time  of  Tiberius  was  not  Tiberius, 
but  Christ.  They  were  superior  to  the  age 
in  which  they  lived." 

The  following  proves  Victor  Hugo  to  have 
been  as  uncompromising  an  opponent  of  the 
Roman  Catholic  Church  as  the  most  rabid 
ultra-Protestant  could  desire : 


IDictor  1bu0o  an&  flDme.  Drouet 


"Why  do  people  desert  Catholicism  ?  Be- 
cause it  is  a  religion  that  creates  atheists.  I 
should  be  an  atheist  if  there  were  only  the 
Catholic  God,  a  being  who  condemns  you  for 
the  fault  of  another,  and  punishes  you  eternally 
for  momentary  offences.  That  is  not  a  God, 
but  a  monster.  My  father  said  that  when  he 
was  in  the  Chamber  of  Peers,  in  Paris,  and 
supported  Martin  as  a  revolutionary  and  ad- 
vanced Pope,  he  was  undeceived  by  Guizot, 
then  Minister  for  Foreign  Affairs.  '  You,  a 
member  of  the  opposition  in  the  Chamber  of 
Peers,'  said  Guizot  to  my  father, — 'you  are 
wrong  if  you  imagine  that  Martin  is  a  man 
who  is  really  advanced.  Martin  is  a  timid 
man,  and  to-morrow,  if  he  were  frightened, 
he  would  surpass  in  violence  and  reaction  all 
the  popes  who  preceded  him.'  My  father,  after 
recounting  some  of  the  deeds  of  Pius  IX., 
said :  '  I  would  put  the  Pope  in  the  grave  with 
this  inscription,  "Jean  Martin,  Assassin  and 
Thief."  If  necessary,  I  would  write  it  myself, 
and  God  would  have  written  it  before  me.' " 


lingo  on 

Catbob 

icfem 


TRomance  of 


(Boofc  anfc 

Evil 

Genius 


There  is  another  sentence  in  the  same 
strain : 

"  'Custom-house  officials  and  priests  are 
alike/  said  my  father;  'the  former  are  met 
with  on  the  frontiers  of  countries,  and  priests 
on  the  frontiers  of  thought.'  " 

It  is  a  relief  to  turn  from  such  highly  con- 
troversial statements  as  these  to  more  gener- 
ally acceptable  matter,  such  as  the  following: 

"I  think  a  guilty  man  is  punished  by  his 
crime.  His  crime  becomes  his  punishment. 
After  his  death  the  criminal  will  find  his  of- 
fence has  become  a  pebble,  a  stone,  or  a  rock, 
which  forms  the  prison  made  for  the  offender 
in  which  he  expiates  his  crime." 

And  this : 

"Good  and  evil  have  their  representatives 
in  poetry.  Alfred  de  Musset  and  Merimee  are 
the  representatives  of  evil ;  they  are  thinkers, 
but  evil  thinkers.  Alfred  de  Musset  brings 
depravity  into  all  he  does,  writes,  and  says. 
These  are  evil  geniuses.  Between  the  good 
and  the  evil  are  neutral  geniuses  such  as 


!.,', 


IDictor  Dugo  an&  flDme,  Drouet 


Theophile  Gautier.  At  the  other  extremity 
are  such  good  geniuses  as  Lamartine,  Georges 
Sand,  and  Lamennais." 

What  follows  is  of  real  literary  interest,  and 
presents  a  picture  of  marvellous  precocity. 

"With  respect  to  praises  lavished  on  Han 
d'hlande,  and  the  astonishment  expressed 
that  such  a  work  could  have  been  written  by 
a  young  boy,  my  father  stated  that  he  had 
written  Han  d'hlande  when  he  was  only 
fourteen,  and  that  he  had  never  read  the 
strange  romance  of  Maturin  entitled  Melnotte 
or  L'Homme  Errant,  by  which  Han  d'hlande 
seems  to  have  been  suggested.  However, 
my  father  did  not  think  a  great  deal  of  Han 
d'hlande;  but  there  is  one  scene  he  likes  and 
would  not  disdain  even  now,  and  that  is  the 
one  in  which  the  executioner  hangs  his  own 
brother.  Han  d'hlande  is  still  regarded 
by  the  Germans  as  my  father's  masterpiece. 
Han  d'hlande  is  not  my  father's  first  work. 
In  1814,  at  the  age  of  twelve,  he  wrote  his 
first  drama." 


literate 

precocity 


66 


Ube  IRomance  ot 


B  Subtle 

istinc 
tion 


The  following  anecdote  of  M.  Ribeyralles  is 
in  lighter  vein,  and  throws  a  curious  side-light 
on  at  least  two  of  the  Frenchmen  who  sought 
refuge  in  Guernsey  in  the  early  fifties: 

"When  I  was  at  Guernsey,"  said  Ribey- 
ralles, "  I  used  to  go  to  a  cafe  to  play  billiards. 
One  day  a  gentleman  came  up  to  me  and 
said :  '  Sir,  will  you  play  with  me  ? '  I  con- 
sented and  played  with  him.  In  a  few  minutes 
another  individual  there  whispered  in  my  ear: 
'  Don't  play  with  that  man ;  he  has  had  twenty 
years'  penal  servitude.'  Immediately  after  the 
second  individual  had  spoken  to  me,  the  first 
one,  taking  me  aside,  said :  '  Don't  speak  to  that 
man ;  he  has  been  sentenced  to  fifteen  years' 
penal  servitude.'  However,  I  played  with 
them  both,  and  observed  that  the  man  who 
had  served  only  fifteen  years  in  prison  enter- 
tained a  profound  contempt  for  the  man  who 
had  served  twenty.  Certainly,  he  was  more 
honest  than  the  other  by  five  years." 

The  following  from  Victor  Hugo  to  the 
elder  Dumas  is  probably  only  the  rough  draft 


Victor  Hugo.     Caricature  by  Daumier. 


Iflictor  Dugo  an&  (tome.  Brouet 


67 


of  a  letter  of  which  the  author  despatched 

a  fairer  copy: 

MARINE  TERRACE, 

November  17,  1854. 
MY  DEAR  DUMAS: 

A  friend  has  cut  out  four  lines  from  a  num- 
ber of  your  Musketeers,  and  has  sent  them 
to  me. 

In  these  four  lines  you  have  succeeded  in 
putting  two  great  things  —  your  mind  and 
your  heart. 

I  thank  you  for  dedicating  to  me  your 
drama,  La  Conscience.  My  solitude  had 
some  right  to  this  remembrance.  Your  dedi- 
cation, so  noble  and  pathetic,  seems  to  me 
like  a  return  to  my  home.  It  is  a  joy  for  me 
to  think  that  I  am  at  this  moment  present  in 
Paris  and  present  at  a  success  of  Alexandre 
Dumas. 

I  am  told  by  letter  that  the  success  is  great 
and  the  work  profound.  The  work  and  its 
success  resemble  my  friendship  for  you. 

Yours  truly, 

V.  H. 


1)U00  tO 

Dumas 


68 


Ube  IRomance  of 


lacfcinci 
tbe  Aagic 

tToucb 


P.S. — I  received  yesterday  a  few  numbers 
of  the  Musketeers,  but  the  one  containing 
your  dedication  did  not  come.  Will  you 
let  me  know  in  which  number  it  appears? 

There  are  many  other  observations  and 
varied  dicta  ascribed  to  the  poet  in  Francois's 
journal,  much  of  which  is  so  stained  with  age 
as  to  be  quite  illegible.  Beyond  what  I  have 
transcribed,  however,  these  records  lack  liter- 
ary value  and  special  interest.  Some  verses 
on  Love,  Hope,  Conjugal  Infelicity,  and  the 
ways  of  our  ancestors,  in  my  opinion,  bear 
no  trace  of  Victor  Hugo's  genius.  They 
may  be  the  product  of  the  poet's  daughter, 
Julie. 


IDictor  twgo  ant)  tome.  2)rouet 


69 


I 


IV 

Xox>et  tbe  flDaster 

N  October,  1822,  when  he  still  lacked  two 
months  of  being  twenty  years  old,  Victor 
wedded  Adele  Foucher,  daughter  of  a  clerk 
employed  in  the  French  War  Office.  There 
were  many  bumps  along  the  way  of  this 
wooing.  The  parents  of  the  pretty,  dark- 
eyed  Ade~le  had  nothing  but  their  blessing  to 
give  their  daughter,  while  the  entire  estate 
of  Hugo  consisted  of  a  talent  for  reeling  off 
an  unlimited  quantity  of  fine  verses.  The 
Foucher  parents,  who  seem  to  have  been 
sensible  that  blessings  and  verses  do  not  aid 
materially  in  establishing  and  maintaining  a 
home,  at  first  opposed  the  match;  but  their 
opposition  finally  gave  way  before  the  per- 
sistent suit  of  the  handsome  and  clever  young 


B 

Koutbful 
JBenebtct 


ttbe  "Romance  of 


Climbing 

Parnassus 


poet,  whose  star  was  now  in  the  ascend- 
ant. Material  good  fortune  was  also  begin- 
ning to  smile  upon  the  young  man,  for  had 
not  King  Louis  XVIII.  granted  him  a  pension 
of  one  thousand  francs,  and  were  not  his 
verses  beginning  to  have  a  marketable  value  ? 
As  we  might  suspect,  the  marriage  took 
place  at  once.  Two  sons  and  a  daughter 
were  born  to  Hugo  and  his  wife,  and,  so 
far  as  is  known,  no  cloud  appeared  to  darken 
the  life  of  Madame  Hugo  for  at  least  eleven 
years.  Hugo's  industry  was  prodigious  even 
at  that  early  time  of  his  career ;  he  produced 
poems,  novels,  and  plays  in  rapid  succession, 
and  so  great  was  their  popularity  amongst 
the  French  people,  and  so  effectively  were 
they  advertised  by  the  malignant  attacks  of 
certain  literary  critics,  that  the  leaves  of  his 
unpublished  manuscripts  might  almost  have 
been  regarded  as  bank-notes  of  large  de- 
nomination. The  King  doubled  his  pen- 
sion, his  envious  critics  continued  to  abuse 
him,  and  his  admiring  literary  confreres 


Dictor  t>u0o  an&  /IDme.  Drouet 


heralded  him  as  master.  His  fame  became 
European. 

Such,  then,  was  the  status  of  Victor  Hugo, 
in  January,  1833,  when  one  morning  a  lady 
called  upon  him  at  his  house  in  the  Place 
Royale,  Paris,  with  the  request  that  she  might 
be  assigned  a  part  in  Hugo's  play,  Lucretia 
Borgia.  That  lady  was  Juliette  Drouet.  Hugo 
was  only  able  to  offer  her  the  very  minor  part 
of  Princess  Negroni,  but  gallantly  promised  to 
compensate  her  in  some  other  way.  The 
poet  kept  his  word  in  this  respect  by  falling 
at  the  actress's  feet  a  few  days  later,  for  she 
had  made  the  most  complete  conquest  of  his 
heart. 

Who  was  this  clever,  this  witty  Juliette, 
who  could  so  easily  vanquish  the  handsome 
and  now  famous  young  poet,  whose  indiffer- 
ence to  and  strictures  upon  feminine  charm 
had  already  created  a  chronic  ache  in  the  hearts 
of  many  Parisian  women?  Her  right  name 
was  Julienne  Josephine  Gauvin,  and  she  was 
born  at  Fougeres  in  1806;  she  would,  there- 


H 

fateful 

Visitor 


ZEbe  IRomance  of 


aulicttc'0 
Earls 
Stags 


fore,  be  twenty-seven  when  she  first  met 
Hugo.  She  was  an  only  child,  and  having 
lost  both  her  parents  before  she  was  a 
year  old,  she  was  adopted  by  Jean  Baptiste 
Drouet,  a  grand-uncle  who  lived  in  Paris, 
and  whose  surname  she  assumed.  When 
seven  years  old,  little  Julienne  was  sent  by 
this  relative  to  the  boarding-school  of  Petit 
Pictus,  an  educational  establishment  under 
the  direction  of  the  Sisters  of  the  Bernard- 
ines  Benedictines  of  Perpetual  Adoration,  a 
sisterhood  celebrated  for  the  awful  auster- 
ity of  their  rule,  and  their  merciless  discipline. 
Having  attained  the  age  of  sixteen,  Julienne 
was  restored  to  her  grand-uncle,  who  was 
ill-prepared  to  receive  her,  being  but  a  poor 
man;  <while  the  orphan's  beauty  was  all  her 
fortune.  For  the  first  three  years  after  she 
left  the  Petit  Pictus,  nothing  is  known  of 
the  life  of  Julienne,  and  perhaps  it  is  charit- 
able not  to  inquire  closely,  but  in  1825  she 
was  living  under  the  protection  of  M.  Pradier, 
a  Parisian  sculptor,  and  sat  to  him  as  a  model 


Madame  Hugo,  wite  of  Victor  Hugo. 


IDfctor 


an&  Obme.  2>rouet 


73 


for  the  statue  of  Strasburg,  which  stands  in 
the  Place  de  la  Concorde.  In  1827  Pradier 
cast  her  adrift  with  her  infant  girl,  of  whom 
he  was  the  father.  She  then  turned  her 
attention  to  the  stage,  and  being  well  edu- 
cated, ambitious,  beautiful,  and  with  some, 
though  not  very  great,  histrionic  talent,  was 
fairly  successful  and  obtained  engagements 
at  some  of  the  best  theatres.  In  1829  she 
dropped  the  name  of  Julienne  Josephine,  and 
thereafter  always  called  herself  Juliette.  M. 
Theophile  Gautier,  describing  her  personal 
appearance  about  the  period  when  she  cap- 
tivated Hugo,  says  of  Juliette  Drouet:  "Her 
head  is  of  a  regular  and  delicate  beauty;  her 
nose  is  clean  cut  and  well  shaped,  and  her 
eyes  brilliant  and  clear.  Her  lips  remain 
very  small  even  when  she  laughs  heartily, 
and  are  of  a  vivid  and  humid  red.  These 
charming  features  are  surrounded  by  a  most 
harmonious  and  soft  oval  contour;  her  fore- 
head is  clear  and  serene,  and  she  has  an 
abundance  of  black  hair  of  an  admirable 


Hn 

Inhuman 
ffatbcr 


74 


Ube  IRomance  of 


Sefore 
tbe 

ffootlfgbts 


lustre.     Her  neck,  shoulders,  and  arms  are  of 
a  perfection  thoroughly  antique." 

Juliette  had  played  various  minor  parts  at 
the  theatre  Porte  St.  Martin,  and  at  the  Odeon, 
where  in  the  autumn  of  1831  she  was  in  the 
cast  of  Catherine  If.,  by  Arnold  and  Lockroy. 
In  1832  she  returned  to  the  Porte  St.  Martin, 
where  she  created  the  part  of  Teresa  in  the  play 
of  the  same  name  by  Dumaspere,  and  the  part 
of  the  Marchioness  in  Jeanne  Vaubernier,  Janu- 
ary, 1833.  It  was  in  this  year  and  month 
that  the  fervently  sympathetic,  passionate, 
and  beautiful  Juliette  met  the  handsome, 
light-haired,  poet  of  thirty-one,  and  was 
given  the  part  of  Princess  Negroni  in  his 
play  Lucretia  Borgia,  in  which  her  great 
personal  beauty  and  magnetic  manner  dis- 
tinguished this  really  minor  character  in  the 
cast.  I  am  indebted  to  M.  Leon  Seche,  of 
the  Revue  de  Paris,  for  a  view  of  the  letter 
concerning  Juliette  Drouet  which  the  poet 
wrote  on  the  day  following  her  first  per- 
formance : 


Uictor  TbUQO  anfc  /IlMnc.  SJrouet 


75 


"There  are  in  Lucretia  Borgia  certain 
second-rate  characters  represented  by  first- 
rate  actors  who  comport  themselves  in  the 
subdued  light  of  their  parts  with  gracefulness, 
perfect  loyalty,  and  good  taste.  The  author 
here  tenders  them  his  thanks.  .  .  .  Mile. 
Juliette  cast  extraordinary  brilliancy  on  this 
figure  (Princess  Negroni).  She  had  but  a  few 
words  to  say,  but  she  put  a  great  deal  of 
thought  into  them.  This  young  actress  only 
needs  an  opportunity  to  reveal  in  an  effective 
manner  to  the  public  a  talent  full  of  soul, 
passion,  and  truth." 

In  the  Artiste  appeared  the  following 
paragraph : 

"  She  knows  all  that  is  taught  by  nature  and 
soul.  She  does  not  know  what  is  taught  by 
the  Professors  of  the  Conservatoire.  Often 
she  seems  not  to  know  how  many  steps  are 
needed  to  cross  the  stage;  exactly  to  what 
height  it  is  permitted  to  raise  the  arms;  how 
one  should  arrange  disordered  hair  and  make 
certain  transitions.  She  is  like  a  bird  that 


lover  an& 
Critic 


76 


Ube  IRomance  of 


Victor 

Van* 

quiebefc 


pierces  the  clouds  with  its  majestic  flight,  and 
walks  with  difficulty  on  the  earth." 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  so  charming  a 
woman  would  remain  without  admirers  from 
the  time  when  she  was  deserted  by  Pradier  un- 
til her  conquest  of  Hugo, — nearly  six  years, — 
nor  was  it  so.  M.  Pradier  had  several  succes- 
sors, among  them  Alphonse  Karr,  the  writer, 
and  a  wealthy  Russian  nobleman.  Within  a 
fortnight  of  the  performance  of  Princess  Ne- 
groni by  Juliette,  the  poet  was  at  her  feet, 
poetically  and  physically.  It  was  on  the 
night  of  February  I7th,  1833.  Eight  years 
later,  on  the  night  between  February  I7th 
and  i8th,  1841,  Victor  Hugo  wrote  the 
following  in  Juliette  Drouet's  album — a  little 
book  called  Livre  de  I '  Anniversaire,  in 
which  the  poet  inscribed  something  every 
year  on  the  anniversary  of  their  avowed 
alliance. 

"Dost  thou  remember,  my  beloved,  our 
first  day  ?  It  was  the  time  of  Carnival  in  1833. 
There  was  being  given  at  some  theatre  a  ball 


IDlctor  Duao  an&  flDme.  Drouet 


77 


to  which  we  both  were  to  go  (I  interrupt  my 

•etnc 
writing  to  imprint  a  kiss  on  thy  sweet  mouth, 

and  then  I  continue).  Nothing,  not  even 
death,  I  am  certain,  can  ever  efface  that  recol- 
lection within  me. 

"All  the  hours  of  that  day  traverse  my 
thoughts  at  this  moment  one  after  the  other, 
like  stars  passing  before  the  eyes  of  my  soul. 
.  .  .  Poor  angel!  what  beauty  and  love  are 
thine!  Thy  little  apartment  was  full  of  ador- 
able silence.  Outside  we  heard  Paris  singing 
and  laughing,  and  the  masked  revellers  pass- 
ing by,  shouting.  Amid  the  great  general 
festival  we  had,  set  apart  and  concealed  in 
the  shade,  our  own  sweet  festival.  Paris 
had  the  false,  we  had  the  true,  blissful- 
ness. 

"Never  forget,  my  angel,  that  mysterious 
hour  which  has  changed  thy  life.  That  day 
of  the  1 7th  February,  1833,  has  been  a  symbol 
and  the  prototype  of  the  great  and  solemn 
change  that  was  being  accomplished  in  thee. 
That  day  thou  didst  leave  outside,  far  from 


78  Ube  IRomance  ot 

s>oubiB      thee,  the  tumult,  the  din,  the  false  happiness, 
raise 

to  enter  mystery,  solitude  and  love. 

"That  day  I  spent  eight  hours  with  thee. 
Each  of  those  hours  has  already  given  birth 
to  a  year  (1833-1841).  During  those  eight 
years  my  heart  has  been  full  of  thee,  and 
nothing  will  change  it,  thou  knowest,  even 
should  each  of  those  years  bring  forth  a 
century."* 

Despite  the  promise  she  had  given  to  Victor 
Hugo  to  abandon  the  Russian  nobleman  who 
had  succeeded  Pradier,  Alphonse  Karr,  and 
others  in  her  favour,  Juliette  continued  to 
serve  two  masters.  The  poet  soon  perceived 
that  he  was  being  deceived,  and  in  his  jeal- 
ous rage  the  relationship  between  them  was 
broken  off.  For  three  days  Victor  Hugo, 
sulking,  waited  for  Juliette  to  repent  and 
return;  but  as  she  showed  no  sign  in  this 
direction,  he  desperately  sped  back  to  his 
inamorata,  who,  being  deeply  touched  at  the 

*  From  M.  Leon  Seche — "  Juliette  Drouet  "  in  the  Revue 
de  Paris.  \  have  edited  the  letter  slightly. 


Dictoc  tw0o  anfc  flDme.  S>couet 


79 


poet's  feeling,  burst  into  tears,  and  vowed 
that  thenceforth  she  would  be  his  alone. 

A  few  days  after  this  she  disappeared. 

Victor  Hugo  was  in  sore  distress  until  he 
learned  from  one  of  her  friends  that  she  had 
gone  to  Brest  in  order  to  avoid  witnessing 
the  sale  of  her  furniture,  which  had  been 
seized  for  debt. 

I  again  quote  from  M.  Leon  Seche : 

"I  have  read  the  letters  which  Victor  Hugo 
wrote  to  her  on  this  occasion.  They  are 
heartrending.  One  sees  that  he  was  con- 
scious of  having  led  that  woman  to  her  (finan- 
cial?) ruin  by  wishing  to  rehabilitate  her  in 
his  own  eyes.  For  it  was  in  order  to  purify 
that  fallen  angel  more  than  in  order  to  enjoy 
her  society,  that  he  had  taken  her  in  his  arms 
and  carried  her  away  to  the  serene  heights 
where  his  thoughts  usually  soared." 

The  result  of  it  all  was  that  Victor  Hugo, 
famous  but  still  poor  in  purse,  got  Pradier,  the 
sculptor,  and  one  or  two  others,  to  assist  him 
in  scraping  up  a  few  thousand  francs  where- 


Singl? 

Jfattbful 


8o 


TRomance  ot 


Ube 
'» 
tbe 
Ubing  " 


with  to  pay  his  lady's  most  pressing  creditors. 
This  accomplished,  the  furniture  at  her  finer 
apartments  at  35bis  Rue  dfe  I'Efhiquier,  was 
sold,  and  she  went  to  live  iif  the,  modest  apart- 
ment that  the  poet  had  rented  ,and  furnished 
for  her  in  Rue  Saint  Anastase,  a  few  steps 
from  his  own  house. 

It  was  here  that  Juliette  really  became  his 
own  and,  "left  outside  the  tumult,  the 
clamour,  the  false  happiness,  in  order  to  enter 
mystery,  solitude,  and  love." 

But  love  alone  was  not  enough  at  that  im- 
patient and  ambitious  time  to  fill  the  life  and 
distract  the  brilliant  energies  of  the  young  and 
beautiful  Juliette.  She  would  insist  upon  essay- 
ing the  part  of  Jane  in  Marie  Stuart,  and  the 
result  was  severe  criticism  by  the  press  and 
assignment  of  the  part  to  a  Mile.  Ida,  of  whom 
it  was  facetiously  said  that  her  ability  would 
even  make  Romeo  faithless  to  Juliette. 

On  his  part,  Victor  Hugo  believed  in  his 
mistress's  histrionic  talent,  and  obstinately 
endeavoured  to  impose  her  upon  the  leading 


La  Esmeralda.     From  the  painting  by  L.  Olivier  Merson. 


Dictor  15U00  an&  flDme.  2>rouet 


8r 


theatrical  managers  of  Paris.  On  the  day 
following  Juliette's  first  and  only  appearance 
as  Jane,  the  poet  wrote  the  following  truly 
beautiful  appreciation  of  her  performance: 

"You  have  only  played  Jane  once,  dear 
friend,  but  the  trace  you  have  left  on  the  part 
is  for  me  as  deep  as  if  you  had  played  it  a 
hundred  times. 

"  You  have  played  the  part  before  two 
thousand  persons,  and  one  alone  understood 
your  conception  of  it.  It  is  because  two 
thousand  persons  do  not  represent  two  thou- 
sand minds.  What  you  have  put  into  this 
part  of  your  heart,  your  soul,  your  mind, 
your  character,  your  passion,  your  love,  your 
beauty,  your  nature,  I  will  write  one  day.  I 
will  try  to  lose  nothing  of  it,  nor  allow  any- 
thing to  be  lost.  If  I  could  do  what  I  wish, 
that  fugitive  evening  would  leave  on  your 
brow  an  everlasting  halo.  If  my  name  lives, 
yours  will  live."  * 

*  Letter  communicated  by  M.  Louis  Koch  to  M.  Leon 
Seche,  hitherto  unpublished  in  English. 


Ha  Seen 

with 
lover's 


82 


IRomance  of 


He  Seen 
by  paris 


With  due  respect  for  Victor  Hugo's  bias 
concerning  his  friend's  ability  as  an  actress, 
contemporary  critics  united  in  saying  that 
Juliette  Drouet  possessed  but  mediocre  talent, 
albeit  a  spirit  and  a  beauty  which,  properly 
directed,  might  have  carried  her  far  along  the 
way  of  her  ambition.  It  is  as  a  lover  and 
mistress,  as  a  beautiful  woman  of  tact  and 
refinement,  as  a  spirited  hostess  of  great 
savoir  mvre,  as  a  friend  and  companion,  that 
she  is  most  interesting.  She  was  the  regnant 
goddess  of  Victor  Hugo's  poetry  after  1834, 
and  their  fellowship  and  her  devotion  en- 
dured for  precisely  fifty  years  and  three 
months  (1833-1883).  In  some  phases  of  this 
remarkable  relationship  the  sublimest  chords 
of  earthly  existence  are  made  to  intone  every 
shade  of  romantic  song  and  feeling.  She  was 
the  inspiration  of  much  that  widened  his 
vision  not  only  in  his  flights  of  fancy  but  in 
what  he  met  in  the  actual  world  around  him. 

And  he  ?  He  was  her  deity,  her  dream, 
and  her  only  tangible  reality.  The  letters  she 


Dictor  tMQO  anfc  /Bme.  S>rouet 


addressed  to  him,  often  thrice  daily,  during 
the  fifty  years  of  her  devotion,  attest  her  de- 
pendence upon  his  touch  and  smile.  She  fol- 
lowed him  in  all  his  work — in  the  Assembly, 
in  the  study,  in  their  delightful  rambles 
amongst  curio  shops;  up  and  down  the  fern 
country  around  Fougeres,  where  Juliette  was 
born.  She  shielded  him  in  his  escape  from 
Paris  disguised  as  a  labourer,  bearing  a  false 
passport;  she  followed  him  into  exile,  and 
made  for  him  and  his  intimates  a  world  of 
gaiety  on  a  quiet  little  island.  When  Madame 
Hugo  died  in  1868,  thirty-five  years  conscious 
of  Juliette  Drouet's  part  in  her  husband's  life, 
Madame  Drouet,  then  a  woman  of  sixty-two, 
became  the  poet's  constant  companion  with 
as  natural  a  transition  as  he  had  become  en- 
meshed by  her  infinite  charm  in  1833. 

The  Lrvre  de  I' Anniversaire  was  Juli- 
ette's own  clever  invention.  It  was  her  de- 
sire that  during  all  the  term  of  their  welded 
affection,  on  the  anniversary  of  the  day  when 
she  had  given  herself  to  him,  the  poet  should 


twit  a 
Centur? 
of  love 


84 


iRomance  ot 


Bn 

Erotic 
Uome 


write  a  page  in  that  little  book  upon  which 
she  slept.  During  the  fifty  years  of  their  love 
he  never  failed  to  do  so. 

Nor  was  this  all.  His  poems,  from  the 
Chants  du  Crepuscule  down  to  the  Chansons 
des  Rues  etdes  Bois,  are  full  of  Juliette  Drouet, 
though  he  has  not  named  her  anywhere. 
The  Livre  del'  Anniversaire  sheds  a  golden  ray 
upon  many  of  his  poems  after  1833  for  those 
who  seek  their  divinity.  His  verses  had  "a 
thousand  ways — a  single  object."  So  sped  the 
lives  of  Victor  Hugo  and  Juliette  Drouet  in 
Paris  until  the  fateful  coup  d'etat. 

Unlike  most  poets,  Hugo  was  an  economist 
who  was  never  lavish,  and  it  is  certain  that 
Juliette  Drouet,  in  adhering  to  him,  did  not 
consult  her  material  interests.  He  provided 
for  her,  it  is  true,  but  in  a  very  modest  way, 
his  most  valuable  gift  being  the  small  house 
called  "  The  Friends,"  near  Hauteville  House, 
where  she  lived  during  Hugo's  exile  in  Guern- 
sey. He  made  ample  provision  for  her  in  his 
will,  but  she  pre-deceased  him  by  two  or 


Victor  Hugo.      Caricature  by  Benjamin  (1843). 


Victor  tmgo  ano  /iDine.  Brouet 


three  years.  Where  relations  such  as  those 
which  existed  between  Hugo  and  Juliette 
Drouet  last  for  nearly  fifty  years,  it  is  certain 
that  they  are  founded  upon  something  less 
ephemeral  than  passion.  What  Beatrice  was 
to  Dante,  that  and  more  was  Juliette  Drouet 
to  Victor  Hugo.  Did  not  some  one  make  the 
cryptic  assertion  that  the  wrong  which  harms 
nobody  is  not  a  wrong  ?  Madame  Hugo  was 
wronged  without  doubt,  but  she  was  either 
oblivious  of  it  or  magnanimously  feigned  to 
be  so.  The  annals  of  real  life  record  few  such 
cases  of  irregular  domestic  relations  as  Hugo's, 
and  none,  so  far  as  I  am  aware,  quite  parallel 
with  it.  Of  a  mistress  being  fiercely  jealous 
of  other  mistresses,  as  Juliette  Drouet  was, 
there  are  records  in  abundance;  but  for  the 
legal  wife  to  submit  to  a  mistress  being  in- 
stalled in  a  house  a  few  hundred  feet  from  her 
own,  and  even  consent  to  visit  her  and  permit 
her  sons  and  daughters  to  do  so  throughout  a 
long  term  of  years,  as  did  Madame  Hugo,  all 
as  a  concession  to  the  waywardness  of  genius, 


tmgo'3 
Inepfra* 

tion 


86 


Ube  TRomance  of 


nanimous 
WUfe 


is  an  example  of  wifely  self-abnegation  which 
would  have  done  credit  to  Chaucer's  patient 
Griselda.  Madame  Drouet,  deep  as  her  devo- 
tion to  Hugo  was,  had  not  the  qualities  which 
constitute  such  sublime  complaisance.  Wit- 
ness the  fragment  of  her  letter  to  Hugo  dated 
July  25,  1851,  doubtless  referring  to  some  as- 
signation arranged  between  the  poet  and  one 
of  his  inamoratas,  of  which  she  chanced  to 
see  the  accomplishment. 


IDictor  Du0o  anfc  flDme.  Brouet 


M 


ZTbc  Xabours  of  (Benius 

E  ANTIME,  Victor  Hugo  had  not  confined 
his  tremendous  energies  altogether  to 
love  and  literature.  His  chieftainship  of  the 
ever-expanding  Romantic  School  was  not 
enough  for  this  indefatigable  genius.  He  had 
been  in  the  depths  and  throes  of  French 
politics  for  many  years,  first  as  Royalist,  then  as 
Republican,  finally  as  an  extreme,  rock-ribbed 
Radical — stern,  rentless,  and  unshakable. 

Louis  Napoleon  and  Victor  Hugo  were 
elected  to  the  Constituent  Assembly  at  the 
same  time,  and  when  it  was  debated  whether 
the  Prince,  then  in  London,  should  be  ad- 
mitted into  France  to  take  his  seat,  we 
find  Victor  Hugo  voting  in  his  favour.  This 
was  in  December,  1848. 


flDanifolfc 
Employ 

mcnte 


88 


IRomance  of 


rlbbeb 

•Ke» 

publican 


From  that  lime  to  the  day  of  his  flight,  in 
December,  1851,  followed  by  the  decree  of 
January  9,  1852,  expelling  him  and  sixty-odd 
former  deputies  of  the  Legislative  Assembly 
from  French  territory,  the  poet's  political  life 
was  one  of  incessant  and  troubled  endeavour. 
It  is  to  the  abuse  hurled  at  the  poet's  head  for 
his  political  activity  during  this  period  of 
storm  and  revolution;  to  the  imprisonment 
of  his  two  sons  (editors  of  Victor  Hugo's  pa- 
per, the  Evenement)  for  various  editorial  of- 
fences; to  all  the  evil  portent  of  the  times;  to 
the  poet's  ill-health  and  fatigue,  and  fits  of 
rage  and  despair,  that  the  following  charm- 
ing, if  hysterical,  letters  from  Madame  Drouet 
refer  in  their  effort  to  assuage  the  poet's  grief 
at  what  he  believed  to  be  the  ruin  of  his  coun- 
try. Their  interest  is  augmented  when  read 
with  knowledge  of  the  poet's  participation  in 
the  events  of  their  time.  It  has  not  been  pos- 
sible within  the  limits  of  this  volume  to  take 
more  than  a  cursory  glance  at  the  poet's 
strenuous  life  in  the  tumult  of  1848  to  1852. 


An  ancient  house  in  Blois.     Drawn  by  Hugo. 


Dictor  DUQO  ani>  flDme.  Drouet 


89 


But  from  Juliette's  letters,  written  during  the 
year  1851,  one  sees  the  ardent  warmth  of  her 
devotion,  sees  her  moods  of  jealous  concern, 
her  doubts  and  fears,  her  hopes  and  prayers, 
for  the  great  man  fighting  with  battered  heart 
and  head  and  hands  the  corrupted  legions  of 
the  day. 

The  Drouet  letters  herewith  presented  may 
be  interpreted  not  only  in  the  light  of  the 
preceding  chapters,  but  also  in  the  shadow 
of  the  letter  from  Chopin,  and  others  from 
"Claire,"  and  to  the  extremely  pathetic  note 
concerning  Madame  Hugo's  final  years. 


Juliette 
as  Scribe 


IRomance  of 


little 
Intrigues 


JULIETTE'S  LETTERS  TO  VICTOR 
HUGO 

January  12,  1836. 

It  is  a  long  time  since  I  have  seen  you. 
However,  I  should  have  liked  to  speak  with 
you  more  than  once.  I  have  heard  that  you 
are  taking  active  steps  with  a  view  to  my  re- 
engagement  at  the  Theatre  Francais.  I  have 
been  told  that  the  delay  in  the  so  necessary 
resumption  of  your  play  arises  from  the  belief 
of  the  management  that  the  interest  you  dis- 
play in  me  on  this  occasion  will  prevent  you 
from  enforcing  all  your  rights.  I  have  also 
been  told  that  they  wish  to  impose,  as  a  con- 
dition of  my  re-engagement,  that  you  produce 
a  piece  this  year,  contrary  to  your  interests. 
I  have  just  cut  short  all  these  little  intrigues. 
I  have  written  to  M.  Jouslin  that  it  does  not 
appear  to  me  convenient  to  enter  into  a  re- 
engagement  at  his  theatre  this  year.  The 


Dictor  1)tt0o  ant)  flDme.  5>rouet 


matter  is  no  longer  in  your  hands.  It  is  I 
who  free  you  and  myself.  You  are  at  liberty 
to  get  your  former  pieces  renewed  and  not  to 
write  a  new  one.  Do  not  trouble  yourself, 
therefore,  any  longer  about  me.  Do  not  per- 
sist obstinately  in  a  generosity  perhaps  preju- 
dicial to  your  interests,  which  are  dear  to  me, 
and  to  those  of  your  family,  which  to  me  are 
sacred.  As  for  me,  I  leave  my  fate  in  God's 
hands.  I  was  the  victim  of  an  odious  in- 
trigue two  years  ago.  It  is  neither  your  fault 
nor  mine.  I  shall  at  least  have  the  satisfac- 
tion of  knowing  that  I  have  not  cost  you  any 
sacrifice,  and  will  never  cost  you  any. 

Permit  me  to  give  you  again  this  token  of 
devotion,  which  is  inviolable  and  profoundly 

disinterested. 

JULIETTE. 

M.  VICTOR  HUGO, 
6,  Place  Royale. 

January  17,  1851. 

Sunday  evening,  10.30. 

Oh  !  think  of  me,  my  sweet  beloved,  so 
that  I  may  feel  it  and  so  that  thy  joy  amid  thy 


Solfcftufce 


92 


IRomance  ot 


delightful   family,  thy  kind   friends  and  ad- 
ofdk 

mirers,  may  not  be  changed  into  bitterness 

and  grief  for  me.  Think  of  me,  of  whom 
thou  art  the  life  and  the  soul.  Think  of  my 
love,  so  profound,  so  pure,  and  so  devoted, 
and  wish  I  were  with  thee.  I  am  going  to 
bed  praying  God  for  thee  and  thine.  I  trust 
my  prayers  will  not  be  fruitless,  as  I  am  ask- 
ing for  their  happiness  and  thine,  should  it  be 
at  the  cost  of  my  own  life.  If  you  knew  how 
I  need  to  know  that  you  are  happy,  my  be- 
loved, almost  as  much  as  to  know  I  am  loved 
by  you!  I  love  you,  love  you,  love  you,  more 
than  anything  in  the  world.  Enjoy  your  suc- 
cess, this  evening,  my  Victor,  your  beauty, 
your  genius,  and  be  happy  with  your  delight- 
ful family.  I  will  be  proud  and  happy  myself, 
provided  amid  all  this  you  do  not  forget  me. 
I  saw  M.  Vilain  for  a  moment  this  evening. 
I  will  tell  you  what  he  dares  not  ask  for  from 
you,  what  1  promised  I  would  ask  for  on  his 
behalf,  and  what  I  know  you  will  grant  with 
your  usual  kindness.  I  mean  a  little  note  to 


Dictor  tmgo  anfc  jflDme.  Drouet 


93 


M.  Cavillier  to  thank  him  for  his  goodness  to      Dew  on 

2>ust 

M.  Vilain.  It  seems  that  M.  Cavillier  would 
be  so  proud  and  grateful  that  it  would  fall  like 
abundant  dew  in  good  services  on  M.  Vilain, 
who,  poor  fellow,  is  in  great  need  of  assist- 
ance. It  would  give  me  also  great  pleasure 
personally,  as  it  would  be  another  way  of  re- 
paying him  for  his  good  and  pious  intention 
as  regards  my  poor  daughter.  However,  if 
you  see  in  it  the  slightest  objection  as  regards 
your  dignity,  let  me  know  and  I  will  not  press 
you  any  further.  Above  all,  I  do  not  wish  to 
importune  or  compromise  you.  I  only  want 

to  love  you  to  my  last  sigh. 

JULIETTE. 

i8th  January, 

10.30,  Monday  evening. 

When  I  ask  you  so  earnestly  to  give  me 
all  the  moments  you  can  spare,  even  the 
shortest,  it  is  because  I  know,  my  sweet 
beloved,  that  I  am  asking  you  for  my  life. 
Whenever  I  am  a  day  without  seeing  you,  it 
is  as  if  a  year  of  my  life  had  passed  away.  I 


94 


Ube  TComance  of 


cannot  very  well  explain  it  to  you,  but  my 
fecfl 

heart  dies  away  when  far  from  you.     I  do  not 

hope  to  see  you  this  evening,  because  of 
the  weather,  the  late  hour,  and  your  toilet.  I 
promise  you  to  be  very  brave  and  resigned. 
For  your  part,  my  beloved,  love  me  with  all 
your  heart  and  strength,  as  I  have  more  need 
of  it  than  ever. 

I  do  not  wish  you  to  be  anxious  as  to  the 
tender  expressions  that  come  from  me  when- 
ever I  part  from  you  and  when  I  speak  of  my 
indisposition,  which,  after  all,  is  nothing.  Be- 
sides, I  am  not  afraid  of  death :  what  I  fear  is 
that  you  will  forget  me,  and  this  would  be 
my  hell  in  the  next  world,  but  if  I  were  sure 
of  being  more  loved  after  my  death,  I  would 
ask  God  to  let  me  die  at  once.  Your  love  is 
the  great,  the  sole  object  of  my  life,  the  only 
joy  and  happiness  of  my  soul.  Try  to  come 
to-morrow  early  and  stay  a  little  with  me;  I 
have  two  terrible  days  to  make  up  for  and 
you  are  too  good  not  to  compensate  me  for 
them.  I  look  forward  to  it  more  than  you 


Juliette  Drouet.     From  a  drawing  from  life  by  Vilain. 


Uictor  tm0o  anfc  /iDmc.  SH-ouet 


95 


can  imagine.  You  are  quite  right  as  to  Mr. 
Cavillier  ;  Fleury  and  Eugene  recognised  it  at 
once.  What  you  are  about  to  do  with  the 
Due  d'Aumale  is  a  hundred  times  to  be  pre- 
ferred and  I  thank  you  for  having  thought 
of  it  first.  All  you  do  is  good,  and  you  always 
take  the  initiative  in  all  generous  thoughts 
and  good  deeds.  You  are,  my  Victor,  kind, 
powerful,  charming,  good,  noble,  and  sublime, 
so  I  kiss  your  dear  little  feet. 

JULIETTE. 

March  ist,  1851. 

Thursday,  8.30  a.m. 

My  heart  is  full  of  you,  my  beloved  !  I  can- 
not go  to  bed  without  telling  you  of  all  the 
foolish,  tender  feelings  that  pass  through  my 
mind.  Your  smile  awakens  my  love  as  the 
sunshine  opens  the  flowers.  Now  my  soul  is 
like  a  bouquet  of  which  your  thought  is  the 
perfume.  This  is  silly,  like  all  I  say,  but  that 
does  not  stop  me.  I  am  delirious  with  love, 
like  others  with  fever.  But  this  delirium  is 
not  painful  but  pleasant  to  me,  and  I  try  to 


JJour 

Smile 

Hwahens 


96 


IRomance  of 


lenfc  me 

five 

francs 


prolong  it  as  long  as  possible.  I  am  convinced 
I  shall  win  the  12,000  francs  *  and  so  to-mor- 
row I  shall  enquire  the  price  of  the  lanterns. 
1  will  give  them  to  you  as  I  promised,  as  I  will 
show  you,  when  I  have  received  my  12,000 
francs. 

Meanwhile,  you  might  lend  me  5  francs 
to  buy  my  cornet;  as  then  I  shall  be  certain 
of  not  missing  my  12,000  francs.  In  your 
own  interest,  of  course,  you  ought  to  lend  me 
this  miserable  sum  of  a  hundred  sous.  Come. 
Fold  a  little  courage  with  your  pocket  and 
the  lanterns  and  the  buffets  are  yours  as  a 
sign  of  my  gratitude. 

JULIETTE. 

2nd  March,  1851. 

Friday  morning,  8. 

Good  morning  to  thee,  to  you,  good  morn- 
ing generally  and  individually,  right  and  left, 
backwards  and  forwards,  upwards  and  down- 
wards, good  morning  again  and  again.  1  love 

*  This  probably  refers  to  a  lottery. 


Uictor  t)ugo  ant)  riDmc.  £>rouet 


97 


you, — and  you  ?  I  shall  suffer  again  unless 
you  give  me  some  tonic  to  cure  me,  but  you 
do  not  seem  to  notice  my  existence,  unless  to 
make  me  draw  all  kinds  of  things.  However, 
if  you  are  good  to  me,  I  will  inundate  you 
with  lanterns  and  coromandels,  but  not  if  you 
treat  me  like  a  Juju  of  bye-gone  days. 
Hitherto  I  reckoned  on  the  generosity  natural 
to  the  stronger  sex,  but  I  see  myself  losing 
my  time  and  I  change  my  tactics.  I  now  ad- 
dress myself  to  your  cupidity  and  hope  to  be 
more  successful.  For  an  hour  of  love,  ready- 
money,  a  good  dinner,  for  a  well-employed 
evening,  breakfast  with  coffee  and  cream,  a 
mouth  of  assiduity,  the  little  mirror,  for  a 
year's  happiness,  uninterrupted,  all  the  coro- 
mandels, all  lace  and  bric-a-brac  required. 

JULIETTE. 

2nd  March,  1851. 

Friday  evening,  7.45. 

How  good  you  are,  my  charming,  dear  be- 
loved, and  how  I  thank  you  for  having  come 
to  see  me  this  evening  !  You  made  me  very 


Capricious 


98 


IRomance  of 


love's  Er= 
travagance 


happy,  my  dearest  Victor,  and  I  feel  sixteen 
years  younger.  So  much  influence  has  happi- 
ness on  my  poor  organisation.  My  pet,  be 
happy,  for  all  the  good  you  have  done  me.  I 
don't  know  whether  the  coromandel  affair 
will  succeed,  but  I  assure  you  I  have  applied 
to  it  all  my  intelligence  and  cleverness,  and 
more  ardour  than  if  it  had  been  for  me.  You 
should  see  it  for  yourself  next  Sunday  and 
decide  whether  you  will  keep  this  present,  if 
not  for  its  beauty,  at  least  for  its  associations. 
I  can't  see  anything  pretty  without  wishing 
you  to  have  it,  and  I  wish  you  to  have  this 
coromandel  because  it  is  admirable.  Try 
therefore,  dearest,  not  to  let  this  chance  slip. 
Think  of  me  this  evening  and  don't  go  home 
too  late.  I  kiss  you  with  all  my  soul  and 
heart.  I  would  like  to  kiss  your  hands,  eyes, 
and  lips  from  the  beginning  of  the  year  to  the 
end.  Alas,  my  wish  is  far  from  being  grati- 
fied every  day,  but  I  love  you  always. 

JULIETTE. 


Victor  Dugo  anfc  flDme.  Drouet 


99 


3rd  March,  1 85 1 . 
Tuesday  morning,  7.30. 

Good  morning,  my  poor  little  darling. 
Sleep  well.  I  am  here.  I  love  you  and  I  kiss 
your  soul  so  as  not  to  wake  you  from  your 
dream  if  it  is  a  happy  one.  When  did  you 
return  home  last  night,  my  darling  ?  I  hope  at 
least  you  had  a  good  supper.  The  other  time 
you  were  very  badly  treated.  It  was  absurd. 
I  don't  wish  you  to  nourish  yourself  in  that 
way.  I  don't  want  you  to  fall  ill,  my  dearest, 
the  idea  makes  my  flesh  creep.  I  wish 
you  to  eat  well  and  always  be  happy.  For 
that  purpose  you  must  not  overwork  your- 
self. I  hope  when  M.  Vilain  comes  you  will 
come  here  oftener.  I  am  preparing  a  surprise 
for  you  for  the  great  Gala  Day.  Kiss  me, 
dearest,  and  try  to  draw  the  famous  coro- 
mandel.  You  know  I  have  the  lanterns 
ready  for  the  recesses.  Kiss  me  for  my 
trouble. 

JULIETTE. 


Bourse  If 


100 


IRomance  of 


politics 


love 

JDcspafr 


4th  March,  1851. 

Sunday,  2  P.M. 

Shall  I  see  you  to-day,  my  dearest  ?  I  fancy 
you  have  to  go  to  your  election  meeting  and 
then  to  dine  this  evening  with  King  Jerome. 
If  that  is  so,  when  shall  I  see  you  ?  I  fully 
understand  how  impossible  it  is,  and  therefore 
I  feel  sad  and  impatient — not  with  you,  my 
dearest,  but  with  the  hundred  thousand  ob- 
stacles that  rise  between  us.  Sometimes  I 
am  inclined  to  despair.  Have  you  made  any 
arrangement  together?  Between  me  and 
you,  I  think  it  would  be  very  difficult  to 
do  so,  owing  to  the  too  great  novelty  of  the 
new  service.  However,  that 's  no  great  evil, 
as  we  should  have  to  mourn  for  the  Restora- 
tion plates  and  dishes  at  your  place,  with  and 
without  the  pun.  Besides,  I  am  ready  to 
offer  you  the  coromandel  after  the  draw  for 
12,000  fr.  Meanwhile  I  would  like  to  draw  a 
little  love  and  happiness  from  you,  which  is 
but  too  difficult,  as  I  know  too  well. 

JULIETTE. 


The  statue  of  Strasburg,  Place  de  la  Concorde,  Paris,  for  which 
Juliette  Drouet  sat  as  model. 


IDictor  f>u0o  anfc  flDme,  2>rouet 


101 


4th  March. 
Sunday,  2j  P.M. 

I  hope,  dearest  you  will  come  either  before 
or  after  dinner,  but,  alas,  at  whatever  time  you 
come  now,  it  will  be  only  for  a  while.  Here 
is  Eugene  coming  in  and  bringing  me  news 
of  the  arrival  to-morrow  of  M.  Vilain;  if  you 
could  only  let  us  see  you  a  day  or  two,  I 
should  be  very  glad,  but  dare  not  hope  for  it. 
However,  I  love  you,  that  is  the  clearest  point 
about  the  matter.  Let  happiness  come  when 
it  will,  that  is  not  my  business:  on  the  con- 
trary, the  more  1  interfere  with  you  the  less  it 
comes.  I  should  be  glad  to  know  whether 
you  have  negotiated  the  matter.  But  what 
exasperates  me  is  not  knowing  whether  I 
will  see  you  to-day,  when  and  for  how  long. 
Until  then  I  will  be  the  saddest  Juju  in  the 
world,  which  will  not  be  very  difficult.  You 
be  silent,  for  it  is  your  fault,  and  come  at 
once:  that  will  be  much  better.  Kiss  me  and 
silence  once  again. 

JULIETTE. 


1  love  Bou 


IO2 


IRomance  of 


love's 
Eternal 
Question 


3oth  March,  1851. 

Saturday  noon. 

Where  are  you,  what  are  you  doing,  what 
are  you  thinking  of,  my  dearest  ?  I  am  wait- 
ing and  thinking  of  you  always,  so  as  not  to  get 
out  of  the  habit  of  doing  so.  Try  to  come 
earlier  so  that  I  may  see  you  longer.  You 
know  that  I  have  not  in  the  world  any  other 
joy  than  seeing  you  near  me  for  a  few  mo- 
ments; that  I  do  not  wish  to  have,  nor  can  I 
have,  any  other.  I  do  not  complain,  how- 
ever, especially  when  you  come  and  stay  with 
me  a  little  longer  than  five  minutes  at  a  time, 
my  dear  little  beloved.  I  am  very  grateful 
for  every  instant  you  give  me,  as  I  know  your 
time  is  taken  up  with  your  work,  your  polit- 
ical engagements,  and  your  family  affection. 
I  quite  realise  the  little  time  that  remains  to 
you  and  me,  and  am  very  grateful  to  you  for 
giving  me  some  of  it.  How  are  you  now, 
dearest;  has  your  cough  gone  away?  Have 
you  slept  well,  and  did  you  go  to  bed  early  ? 
Poor  darling,  when  I  think  of  the  use  you 


IDlctor  ftuao  an&  flDme.  Brouet  103 

have  made  of  your  Easter  holidays,  my  heart  jea«tec 
is  full  of  pity  for  you.  Really,  you  exaggerate 
your  courage  and  sense  of  duty  to  the  point 
of  suicide.  When  I  see  what  you  are  doing,  I 
admire,  pity,  and  feel  afraid  of  you.  I  fear  all 
this  courage  and  devotion  will  have  to  be  paid 
for  by  some  terrible  illness.  Good  Heavens! 
what  would  become  of  me  if  such  a  misfor- 
tune were  to  happen  ?  I  don't  like  to  think 
of  it,  as  the  very  thought  would  drive  me 
mad.  I  will  hope,  however,  that  God  will 
take  pity  on  you  and  me  and  will  give  you 
health  and  strength  in  proportion  as  you  use 
and  misuse  it.  In  this  belief  I  thank  Him  on 
my  knees  with  all  my  soul. 

JULIETTE. 

Wednesday  morning, 

June  1 6th,  8.30. 

Good  morning,  my  Victor — always  greater, 
more  generous,  handsome,  and  more  beloved, 
good  morning!  And  my  life! — how  I  regret  I 
cannot  give  you  all  my  life  at  once  in  order  to 
prove  how  much  I  love  you!  It  grieves  me  to 


104 


Romance  of 


Insatiate 

TOomait ! 


think  I  cannot  use  so  much  love  in  your  serv- 
ice, and  regret  God  does  not  give  me  an 
opportunity  for  doing  so.  I  am  humiliated  in 
my  most  holy  and  tender  ambition.  It  is  an 
injustice  I  will  make  the  most  of  when  I  have 
to  settle  my  accounts  with  Heaven.  Mean- 
while I  must  be  resigned  to  loving  you  for 
myself  alone,  which  only  half  satisfies  me.  I 
will  presently  come  to  look  for  you  in  the 
Chamber  by  the  route  agreed  upon.  I  will  wait 
for  you  at  St.  Sulpice,  as  I  do  not  wish  to  run 
the  risk  of  being  told  by  Madame  Fian  what 
a  tiresome  fellow  he  is  and  how  badly  he 
sings;  and  besides,  I  am  tired  of  those  pro- 
tracted and  frequent  stays  with  the  best  but 
most  irritating  of  women.  You  must  have 
water,  but  not  too  much;  an  excess  is  in 
everything  a  defect.  My  beloved  Victor,  my 
sublime  darling,  my  heart  is  running  over 
with  love  and  admiration  for  you.  I  would 
like  to  kiss  your  poor  little  wounded  feet. 

JULIETTE. 


IDictor  tw0o  anfc  flDme*  IDrouet 


Wednesday  morning,  7.30, 
July  1 6th,  1851. 

Good  morning,  my  poor  darling,  good  morn-      COD  ani> 

Often 

ing.     I  am  filled  with  dismay  on  seeing  what 

tbim 

dreadful  weather  it  is,  and  thinking  that  per- 
haps you  will  speak  to-day.  What  I  feel  re- 
sembles the  reverent  compassion  and  the  pious 
pity  of  the  Magdalen  before  the  tortures  of  her 
adored  Messiah.  Everything  is  in  league 
against  your  recovery — the  weather  and  affairs, 
God  and  men.  How  will  you  extricate  your- 
self from  it  all,  my  poor  beloved  ?  With  care 
and  prudence  you  might  perhaps  avoid  many 
misfortunes;  but  you  are  so  preoccupied  that 
you  cannot  even  think  of,  or  try  to  avoid, 
them.  I  can  only  worry  myself,  pity  you, 
love  you,  and  suffer.  I  came  home  last 
night  at  9.30  exactly;  and  though  for  the 
sake  of  your  poor  throat  I  hoped  you  would 
not  come,  I  did  not  go  to  bed  till  eleven 
o'clock.  I  thank  you,  my  dear  pet,  for 
having  had  the  prudence  to  remain  at 
home,  and  I  should  thank  you  so  much  the 


io6 


Ube  IRomance  of 


more  if  you  had  given  up  all  that  time  to 
repose.  But  I  should  be  very  grateful  if  you 
had  thought  of  me  a  little  and  missed  me. 
I  will  soon  know  —  but  until  then,  what 
torture  and  impatience!  Sleep  as  long  as 
you  can,  dearest.  Take  a  good  breakfast,  do 
not  speak,  and  try  by  every  means  to  escape 
the  bad  effects  of  the  rain  and  cold.  I  en- 
velop you  with  all  tenderness,  solicitude, 
and  caresses  in  order  to  protect  you  from 
them. 

JULIETTE. 

Friday  morning,  7.0, 
July  25th,  1851. 

Good  morning,  dear.  Good  morning,  my 
beloved.  Sleep  on ;  it  is  not  yet  time  to  awake 
you.  Sleep;  and  love  me  in  your  dreams,  if 
you  can.  During  that  time  I  will  love  you 
in  all  reality,  while  looking  at  a  faint,  pale 
sun  which  does  not  augur  anything  good  for 
the  day.  You  would  have  liked  to  take  ad- 
vantage of  my  poor  broken  leg  to  hang  me  up 
on  a  nail  and  get  rid  of  me  for  a  long  time ; 


A  late  portrait  of  the  poet. 


IDictor  1bu0o  ant)  flDme.  2>rouet 


but  I  am  not  so  broken  down  as  I  look,  and 
even  if  I  were,  the  last  bit  of  me,  the  very 
smallest  fragment,  would  run  after  you  of  its 
own  accord.  So  you  see  you  are  caught,  and 
had  better  make  up  your  mind  to  come  and 
see  me  presently. 

How  good  you  are,  my  Victor,  and  how  1 
love  you!  I  never  weary  of  telling  you,  and 
the  happiness  I  feel  in  telling  you  is  as  great 
now  as  at  the  first  time.  I  don't  wish  you  to 
go  to  any  inconvenience,  or  to  curtail  your 
repose  in  order  to  please  me.  Yesterday 
you  seemed  tired  and  full  of  care,  and  1 
regret  that  you  should  have  come  to  see 
me  in  that  mental  and  physical  condition, 
which  called  for  rest  and  tranquillity.  My 
dearly  beloved,  1  pray  you  with  tenderest 
and  gentlest  solicitude  not  to  tire  yourself, 
nor  to  impose  on  yourself  any  duty — not  even 
that  of  loving  me,  if  that  is  a  duty.  Come 
when  you  hope  to  find  a  little  happiness  by 
my  side.  But  what  I  fear  more  than  death  is 
to  think  that  I  am  thrusting  myself  on  you. 


love 
fmows  no 


Dour 


io8 


Ube  IRomance  ot 


I  tell  you  this,  dear  Victor,  very  tenderly  and 

3ealou0 


IRage 


disinterestedly.     Do  not  take  it  amiss. 

JULIETTE. 

Friday  evening,  10.30, 
July  25th. 

It  would  be  foolish  for  me  to  hold  you  re- 
sponsible for  to-day's  chance  occurrence,  and 
I  should  be  afraid  of  offending  you  by  sup- 
posing you  capable  of  deceiving  me  after  all 
that  has  taken  place — after  the  offers  I  have 
made  you,  after  the  courage  and  resignation 
that  I  have  displayed.  However,  my  poor 
darling,  1  came  back  quite  upset  about  that 
unexpected  appearance  at  the  door  of  the 
Assembly,  and  your  eagerness  to  enter  the 
interior  again  without  telling  me  anything  or 
offering  any  explanation,  and  that  with  the 
most  embarrassed  and  confused  air  in  the 
world,  like  a  man  unpleasantly  surprised  to 
meet  me.  What  I  have  suffered  since  that 
moment,  and  what  I  am  suffering  this  instant, 
would  be  your  condemnation  before  God  if 
you  were  capable  of  another  act  of  treason, 


Iflictor  twao  anfc  fl&me.  HJrouet 


109 


and  would  draw  down  upon  you  the  greatest 
misfortunes.  It  would  now  be  more  than 
treason ;  it  would  be  sacrilege.  Therefore  I  do 
not  wish  to  believe  it.  I  refuse  to  admit  that 
semi-evidence,  deny  your  pallor,  your  embar- 
rassment, your  flight.  Alas,  I  would  I  could 
also  deny  my  suffering,  my  jealousy,  and  my 
despair !  My  God  !  My  God !  What  have  I 
done  that  I  should  be  stricken  in  the  tenderest 
part  of  my  heart  ?  Is  it  a  crime  to  love  a  man 
more  than  anything  in  the  world,  and  to  pre- 
fer him  to  Thee  ?  If  that  is  so,  Thou  hast 
punished  me  cruelly  through  my  very  fault; 
Thou  hast  not  spared  me  any  torture.  Oh,  how 
I  wish  to  die!  How  weary  I  am  of  this  love, 
so  painfully  and  fruitlessly  laborious!  Oh,  how 
I  long  for  eternal  rest!  My  God!  My  God! 
have  pity  on  me.  Let  those  live  who  find 
happiness  in  this  life,  and  take  me  who  am 
suffering.* 

JULIETTE. 

*  See  note  to  letter  signed  Claire,  page  143. 


Victor  tbe 

fickle 


no 


TTbe  IRomance  ot 


HH'0 

Well 
Hgain 


Sunday  evening,  10.30, 
July  ayth,  1851. 

It  is  hardly  probable  that  you  will  be  able 
to  come  this  evening,  my  poor  darling,  so  that 
as  soon  as  I  have  finished  this  last  scrawl  I 
shall  go  to  bed  to  try  and  sleep — which  for  two 
nights  I  have  not  been  able  to  do.  Thanks  for 
your  kindness  and  the  pleasant  afternoon  we 
spent  together  to-day.  I  hope  to  succeed  in 
sleeping.  Do  not  go  to  bed  too  late,  dearest. 
Sleep  well ;  and  think  of  me  with  love,  if  you 
can.  That  will,  perhaps,  not  be  difficult — at 
least  as  regards  your  rest  and  sleep,  as  you 
have  not  the  same  causes  as  I  for  struggling 
against  insomnia  and  the  thousand  tortures  of 
jealousy,  past,  present,  and  future.  I  wish 
you  would  permit  me  not  to  write  to  you  for 
a  time,  because  in  spite  of  myself  I  recur  to  my 
fixed  idea,  and  indulge  perpetually  in  the  same 
talk  for  which  you  have  had  the  utmost 
patience  and  pity.  Shall  I  ?  What  do  you  say, 
my  pet  ?  You  cannot  really  care  for  lines  with- 
out wit,  reason,  joy,  or  courage.  It  is  quite 


IPictor  tmoo  anfc  /IDme.  2>rouet 


enough  to  impose  on  you  my  sad  and  wretched 
self.  Perhaps,  by  dint  of  inertia  and  mental 
and  physical  prostration,  I  will  at  last  forget 
everything.  1  will  leave  off  for  some  time,  and 
then  if  I  feel  still  more  unhappy  than  before, 
I  will  ask  your  permission  to  resume  this 
puerile  habit,  which  was  for  a  long  time  my 
greatest  happiness. 

JULIETTE. 

July  29,  1851. 
Thursday  morning,  7.45. 

.  .  .  You  know,  my  dearest,  that  1  shall 
be  alone  after  noon.  ...  I  only  wish  to 
remind  you  that  it  is  Juliette's  birthday,  and 
that  it  would  be  very  pleasant  for  me  if  I  could 
spend  a  tiny  bit  of  it  in  your  dear  arms.  1  do 
not  add  anything  further  now  to  this  hint 
which,  however,  you  must  not  read  till  your 
last  lamp  has  been  extinguished  and  you  are 
left  with  nought  but  your  night-light.  Then, 
at  that  moment,  my  beloved,  I  would  ask  you 
to  send  me  the  tenderest  kiss  you  can,  so  that 
it  may  come  to  me  in  a  dream  in  your  dear 


TOritfng 
a  puerile 

fjabit 


112 


ZTbe  TRomance  ot 


forgiven  shape,  and  keep  me  sweet  company  until  morn- 
ing. Meanwhile,  I  expect  you.  I  hope  I  shall 
not  have  long  to  wait,  and  then  I  shall  spend 
all  my  day  with  you. 

3istjuly,  1851. 
Thursday  evening,  9  o'clock. 

I  return  to  you,  my  beloved,  with  that  con- 
fidence and  ardour  that  springs  from  mutual 
love;  without  any  rancour  for  the  past  or 
anxiety  for  the  future,  with  the  sweet  and 
delightful  cohort  of  my  illusions,  with  all  my 
strength  and  all  my  soul,  therefore  be  fore- 
warned! I  shall  not  speak  to  you  again  of 
what  I  suffered,  but  I  will  remember  through- 
out eternity  your  ineffable  kindness  and  divine 
meekness.  I  no  longer  see  your  fault  but 
only  feel  your  love.  I  will  not  ask  whether 
my  image  on  your  heart  is  mutilated,  but  I 
know  that  on  mine  you  are  complete,  very 
living,  beautiful,  great,  and  sublime.  I  know 
not  whether  my  happiness  will  ever  resume 
its  first  form,  but  I  am  certain  that  I  have  no 
other  belief,  nor  any  other  divinity  than  you. 


T3 
O) 

'•3 
o 

60 

X 


IDictor  f)uao  ant)  /Bme.  S)rouet 


All  the  despair  that  has  shaken  my  heart  dur- 
ing the  last  month  has  not  shaken  from  it  that 
marvellous  fruit  of  love,  enlarged  and  ripened 
by  all  the  sap  of  my  admiration  for  you  for 
nearly  nineteen  years.  I  feel  its  roots  deeper 
and  more  living  than  ever  in  the  middle 
of  my  heart,  and  even  my  tears,  far  from 
injuring  them,  have  revivified  them  like  re- 
freshing rain. 

JULIETTE. 

3  ist  July,  1851. 
Thursday  evening,  9^ 

DEAREST, 

I  write  to  you  at  random  without  false 
shame  for  my  ignorance  and  stupidity  which 
I  am  not  to  blame  for.  You  were  right,  be- 
loved, in  foreseeing  that  Charles  *  would  find 
it  hard  to  part  from  home,  but  I  trust  this 
separation  from  the  happiness  of  the  hearth 
will  seem  to  him  less  unendurable  when  you 
have  been  to  see  him,  to  arrange  with  him  the 

*  Hugo's  son,  imprisoned  for  editorial  offences  in  the 
Evenement. 


Cbatlea 


prison 


TRomance  of 


Ipra? 

for  lj?ou 


use  of  his  time,  and  to  keep  him  from  brood- 
ing over  his  troubles. 

To-morrow  I  will  be  ready  at  12.30  A.M., 
as  you  told  me  through  Vilain.  Till  then,  my 
poor  darling,  do  not  worry  yourself  about 
your  son;  don't  go  to  bed  too  late.  Think 
of  me  and  love  me  so  that  nothing  may  come 
to  disturb  the  sweet  confidence  in  which  I 
have  lately  been  living.  You  were  right  not 
to  tire  yourself  by  coming  this  evening.  I 
thank  you  for  it  with  gratitude,  tenderness, 
and  love.  1  am  glad  to  make  this  sacrifice 
to  your  rest  and  health.  Sleep  well,  my 
Victor,  my  life,  my  joy,  my  soul,  and  have 
no  fear  about  Charles.  I  will  watch  over 
him  and  over  you.  I  pray  for  you  and 

bless  you. 

JULIETTE. 

3istjuly,  1851. 
Thursday  evening,  1 1 .00. 

One  more  letter,  my  dear  little  pet,  and 
then  I  will  go  to  bed  hoping  to  dream  of  you. 
You  should  do  the  same,  so  that  our  two 


Uictor  DUQO  an&  flDmc.  Brouct 


souls,  relieved  of  the  inconvenient  trammels 
of  the  body,  may,  during  sleep,  mingle  to- 
gether in  dreams.  Poor  darling!  I  fear  you 
are  sad  and  that  your  anxiety  as  to  Charles 
will  deprive  you  of  sleep.  I  wish  it  were 
already  morning,  to  know  how  he  is  and 
what  he  said  to  you.  Good  heavens!  what 
a  stupid  and  monstrous  persecution  against 
this  noble  and  generous  young  man!  The 
more  one  thinks  of  it,  the  less  one  under- 
stands this  hideous  cynicism  and  cowardly 
vengeance,  more  stupid  than  ferocious,  in 
spite  of  their  willingness  to  do  evil.  Do 
not  worry  yourself,  especially  just  now,  when 
too  much  fatigue  and  want  of  sleep  may 
greatly  prejudice  your  speedy  recovery.  I 
will  give  you  a  good  example  by  going  to 
bed  at  once.  Good-night,  my  true  beloved, 
good-night.  Do  not  regret  having  been 
good,  patient,  and  tender  to  me,  as  you 
have  been  during  the  last  month.  I  will 
reward  you  for  it  with  a  love  great  enough 
to  make  even  le  bon  Dieu  Himself  jealous.  I 


fleeb» 

Encuma 
bereft 
Souls 


n6 


Ube  IRomance  of 


close  your  eyes  with  two  big  kisses  in  lieu 
of  bolts.     Until  to-morrow. 

JULIETTE. 

ist  August,  1851. 
Friday  morning,  8.30. 

Good-morning,  my  sweet  beloved,  good- 
morning.  How  have  you  passed  the  night  ? 
Better  than  yesterday,  I  hope.  I  fell  asleep 
saying :  My  God,  make  him  love  me,  and  woke 
up  saying:  Make  him  love  me  only.  You 
know  if  my  prayer  is  granted.  As  for  me,  I 
love  you  as  much  as  if  I  were  sure  of  it.  I 
smile  on  you  and  am  calm  and  trusting.  I  hope 
soon  to  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  your  dear 
son. 

I  know  you  will  tell  him  what  kind  of  life 
to  follow  during  his  absurd  and  iniquitous 
banishment  in  order  to  prevent  his  being 
home-sick  and  that  he  will  soon  recover  his 
good  spirits.  You,  my  little  darling,  will  be 
less  worried  when  you  have  settled  as  regards 
your  son.  Probably  you  will  spend  all  day 
with  him  and  that  I  shall  only  see  you  on  the 


Dtctoc  ifougo  anfc  /IDinc.  IDroucr 


117 


way.      That  is  very  little  for  the   insatiable      perse. 

ration 

needs  of  my  love,  but  enough  for  my  happi- 
ness if  you  love  me  as  I  do  you.  Vilain  is 
going  to  see  Charles  and  stay  with  him  as  long 
as  possible.  I  told  him  to  ask  Charles  when 
he  could  see  me,  so  as  not  to  disturb  him.  I 
hope  that  my  visits,  which  will  only  last  a 
few  minutes,  will  not  inconvenience  him  nor 
cause  him  to  regret  having  consented  to  see 
me.  There  is  quite  a  programme  to  be  made, 
in  which  I  should  like  a  little  place,  in  order 
to  cause  him  to  forget  his  troubles  all  the  time 
he  remains  in  this  dismal  prison.  I  hope  your 
visit  to-day  will  completely  alter  the  formali- 
ties to  be  observed  as  to  your  dear  son  with 
the  idea  of  annoying  him.  They  are  wicked 
and  spiteful,  but  still  more  cowardly,  and  will 
not  dare  to  face  your  indignation.  I  am  full 
of  confidence  in  the  effect  of  your  presence. 
Meanwhile  I  love  you  on  my  knees. 

JULIETTE. 


n8 


ttbe  IRomance  ot 


ist  August,  1851. 
Friday  morning. 

fleuroste       MY  DEAR  LITTLE  DARLING, 

I  am  still  very  brave  and  reasonable.  I 
point  this  out  to  you  because  I  know  you 
attach  great  importance  to  my  not  suffering. 
I  do  my  best  to  support  your  intentions, 
which  are  so  generous  and  tender.  I  should 
have  liked  to  give  up  writing  to  you  for  some 
time  for  reasons  concerning  my  health,  in 
order  to  spare  your  being  a  witness  of  my 
mental  convalescence.  You  would  not  agree 
to  that,  but  I  hope  that  your  temerity  will 
not  be  unfavourable  to  us  and  that  I  shall  con- 
tinue to  be  strong,  trusting,  and  resigned,  as  I 
was  yesterday.  I  do  not  wish  to  torture  you, 
to  have  my  sadness  cause  you  any  remorse. 
I  wish  to  spare  you  the  shadow  of  a  reproach 
by  hiding  from  you  the  shadow  of  a  regret. 
I  wish  to  smile  on  you,  so  that  you  may  be 
tranquil ;  I  want  everything  that  will  give  you 
health  and  happiness.  Therefore,  I  repeat 
that  I  should  have  wished  to  suppress  for  a 


IDictor  IJUQO  an&  flDme.  Brouet 


119 


time  this  formless  scribble,  the  photograph  of 
my  thoughts  and  my  love.  I  could  not  help 
yielding  to  your  wish,  but  I  think  I  was  im- 
prudent in  doing  so.  I  don't  say  this  as 
regards  this  morning,  being  now  in  perfect 
health  in  mind  and  body,  but  when  I  am  ill 
again,  I  hope  you  will  allow  me  not  to  men- 
tion it.  I  wish  as  much  as  I  love  you  that  I 
shall  avoid  it,  and  shall  resist  it  with  all  my 
strength,  but  I  wish  in  any  event  that  you 
may  not  be  a  witness  or  become  informed  of 
it  by  any  sign.  My  poor,  dear  darling,  I  wish 
you  to  be,  as  far  as  I  am  concerned,  the  most 
tranquil,  the  most  respected,  and  the  most 
beloved  of  all  men. 

JULIETTE. 

ist  August,  1851. 
Friday  morning,  9  o'clock. 

My  thoughts  fly  to  you  and  your  son,  won- 
dering how  both  of  you  have  passed  the 
night.  I  fear  your  anxiety  may  have  deprived 
you  of  sleep  as  the  mattress  and  dirty  sheets 
deprived  Charles  of  rest,  as  he  complained 


prison 
Comforts 


120 


TLbe  IRomance  of 


love  f  n» 
adequate 


yesterday.  If  that  were  the  only  thing  that 
prevented  him  from  sleeping,  it  would  be  easy 
to  get  him  good  sleep  by  sending  him  a  good 
bed,  but  for  you,  my  sweet  beloved,  it  would 
not  be  so  easy  to  obtain  rest.  I  foresee  that 
you  will  be  more  worried  and  fatigued  than 
ever.  Whatever  my  love  can  do  to  avoid  any 
trouble  for  you,  I  will  do  it,  my  darling, 
whenever  that  is  possible,  but  I  very  much 
fear  that  I  cannot  preserve  you  from  very 
much.  I  am  so  conscious  of  my  inutility. 
Besides,  you  know  that  I  do  not  deceive  my- 
self with  the  idea  of  being  of  any  use  to 
you  in  this  world.  Heaven  knows  I  am 
not  wanting  in  willingness,  devotion,  and 
love ;  unfortunately  these  are  not  enough, 
because  until  now  I  have  not  been  able  to 
utilise  them  at  the  proper  time.  It  is  sad. 
Even  the  weather  seems  to  conspire  with  the 
reactionary  party  to  prevent  your  recovery. 
But  it  will  not  succeed  more  than  they,  and 
you  will  get  well  in  spite  of  all.  As  for  me, 
my  dearest,  I  will  surround  you  with  so  much 


The  monument  to  Hugo,  by  Barrias,  Avenue  Victor  Hugo,  Paris. 


Dictor  DUQO  anfc  flDme.  Drouet 


121 


tenderness,  serenity,  and  tranquillity  that  you 
will  finally  be  calm  amid  all  the  agitation  of 
your  life  and  tumults  of  your  heart.  I  will 
labour  with  all  my  strength  to  that  end. 

JULIETTE. 

ist  August. 
Friday  evening,  8 .30. 

I  did  not  go  to  Sablonville,  my  darling,  I  did 
not  have  any  wish  to  do  so,  and  this  evening 
I  would  not  even  stay  to  dinner  with  Louise 
in  spite  of  her  pressing  invitation.  I  met  your 
son  Victor  who  was  coming  back  in  a  carriage 
with  a  gentleman.  It  was  then  five  minutes 
to  five.  I  came  home  so  as  to  think  of  you 
in  silence  and  solitude.  Just  now  I  noticed  a 
few  drops  of  rain  were  falling,  which  no 
doubt  will  prevent  you  from  coming  this 
evening.  You  will  do  well,  my  darling,  not 
to  expose  yourself  to  the  wet.  I  hope  V. 
will  come  and  tell  how  you  are,  and  also  your 
Charles.  Meanwhile  I  console  myself  with 
the  idea  that  if  I  lose  your  company  now,  I 
shall  soon  see  you.  JULIETTE. 


Silence 


Solttufce 


122 


Ube  TRomance  ot 


Juliette's 

?oot> 
lecture 


Wednesday  morning,  7.30, 

August  6th,  1851. 

Good-morning,  my  more  than  well  beloved. 
Good-morning.  I  adore  you.  I  hope  this 
weather  is  just  what  you  like.  If  it  could  last 
like  this  all  the  autumn,  and  if  you  did  not 
work  too  much,  no  doubt  you  would  be  quite 
cured  before  winter. 

How  good  you  were  to  come  back  last  night, 
but  how  imprudent  you  are  to  go  without  food 
so  long!  You  take  an  unfair  advantage  of  the 
patience  of  your  stomach,  as  you  have  done 
of  the  strength  of  your  legs.  But  you  see  now 
that  you  cannot  do  so  with  impunity,  and  that 
ought  to  serve  as  a  lesson  to  you  in  other 
things. 

My  dear  pet,  my  solicitude  is  like  my  love, 
expressed  over  and  over  again ;  but  I  am  so 
unhappy  when  you  are  ill,  and  I  love  you  so 
much,  that  it  is  very  difficult  for  me  to  speak 
and  think  of  anything  but  what  will  preserve 
your  health  and  keep  your  heart  for  me.  I 
should  have  desired  not  to  have  lost  a  bit  of 


Dfctor  fcugo  anfc  /iDme.  JDrouet 


123 


you  to-day,  and  to  have  been  able  to  accom- 
pany you  to  your  son's  place  and  to  the 
Assembly;  but  you  are  so  uncertain  of  what 
you  will  do,  and  what  time  you  will  come 
out,  that  I  am  compelled  to  remain  at  home 
and  await  all  those  good  people,  who  will 
probably  be  extremely  punctual.  But  I  hope 
to  make  up  for  it  this  evening,  especially  if 
you  can  come  by  the  5.30  train.  Unfortunately 
that  is  hardly  probable  on  account  of  the  ques- 
tions in  the  Chamber,  and  the  imminent  pro- 
rogation. I  will  hope  for  a  double  and  treble 
supply  of  happiness  in  order  to  carry  it  in  my 
eyes,  in  my  soul,  on  my  lips — everywhere 
where  there  is  room  for  it. 

JULIETTE. 

1 9th  September,  1851. 

Friday  evening,  7.30. 

I  have  just  burnt  the  three  letters  I  wrote  to 
you  to-day,  my  beloved  darling,  so  that  you 
may  not  know  how  far  my  folly  and  dis- 
couragement extend  since  I  parted  from  you. 
This  depression  extends  to  my  body,  the  life 


•fcapptneae 
in  Dec 


124 


Ube  TRomance  of 


foretaste 
of  Deatb 


of  which  seems  to  recede  as  soon  as  your 
eyes  no  longer  animate  mine;  when  your 
breath  is  no  longer  felt  on  my  lips,  when 
your  kisses  no  longer  make  my  heartbeat  fast. 
This  foretaste  of  death  passes  away  as  soon 
as  I  see  you,  and  I  recover  under  all  the  joyful 
promises  of  your  smile,  all  the  tender  hopes 
of  your  caresses,  all  the  allusion  and  seduc- 
tiveness of  your  words.  Hence,  I  have 
thought,  my  poor  darling,  that  it  would  be 
better  to  abstain  from  these  daily  bulletins, 
which  have  the  grave  objection  of  causing 
you  to  witness  all  the  oscillations  of  my  unrea- 
sonable mind,  all  the  crises  of  my  jealousy 
and  depression,  for  it  is  sufficient  to  see 
your  sweet  self  to  calm  and  drive  away 
these  feelings.  This  is  not  the  first  time  I 
have  suggested  this.  Think  it  over  and 
come  to  a  decision.  1  will  obey  you  with 
adoration. 

JULIETTE. 


IDictor  tw0o  an&  flDme.  Brouet 


125 


i  pth  September,  1851. 

Friday  evening,  8. 

I  feel  happy  enough  this  evening  to  write 
twice  my  usual  pages  of  scribble  and  I  do  not 
await  your  decision  before  indulging  myself  in 
writing  to  my  heart's  content.  It  would  be 
quite  soon  enough  to  refrain,  if  I  had  not  seen 
you  again  this  evening  and  my  night  were  to 
pass  in  long  insomnia  and  dark  dreams.  I  am 
sorry  I  did  not  accept  the  proposal  you  made 
just  now  for  the  reason  that  a  bird  in  the  hand 
is  worth  two  in  the  bush,  but  I  was  so  sad  and 
depressed  when  you  came  in  that  it  seemed  to 
me  that  I  should  never  again  have  the  strength 
to  be  happy,  but  as  soon  as  you  touched  the 
ends  of  my  fingers  and  placed  lips  on  mine 
my  life  came  back  with  the  energy  of  love 
and  the  need  of  happiness.  But  this  sudden 
transition  did  not  add  another  hour  to  the  too 
brief  time  we  had  before  us  to  put  your  de- 
lightful project  into  effect,  I  mean  the  excursion 
and  walk.  I  had  therefore  to  resign  myself  to 
postponing  it,  at  my  risk  and  peril,  and  trust 


Jfurore 
ScribcnM 


126 


Ube  TRomance  of 


in  your  promise,  hoping  you  will  carry  it  out 
as  soon  as  possible  and  for  a  long  period. 
Until  then,  my  beloved,  I  shall  think  I  was 
wrong  in  not  seizing  the  opportunity  when  it 

came. 

JULIETTE. 

igth  September,  1851. 

Friday  evening,  1 1 .30. 

Not  a  day  goes  by  now,  my  poor  darling, 
without  bringing  some  new  violence  against 
thee  and  thine.  It  is  enough  to  make  one's 
blood  boil,  and  to  excite  the  indignation  of  all 
good  people.  Don't  fear  that  they  can  shake 
me,  my  beloved,  for  my  courage  flows  all  the 
more  with  their  persecution  against  you.  I 
will  be  worthy  of  you  and  no  human  power 
can  lessen  my  devotion,  and  no  danger  can 
make  my  love  afraid.  What  I  felt  just  now 
was  not  weakness  or  fear,  but  indignation  and 
disgust  against  those  mean,  cowardly,  and 
vile  persons  who  are  so  ferocious  and  violent. 
Whenever  they  have  brutal  force  they  could 
have  no  other,  nature  having  denied  them 


Dtctor  Tbugo  an&  flDmc.  Brouet 


127 


greatness  of  mind.  Let  me  pour  out  my  in- 
dignation, my  darling,  against  these  infamous 
scoundrels  who  have  the  audacity  to  attack 
you,  the  noblest,  most  generous,  greatest,  most 
devoted  and  disinterested  of  men.  Having 
given  vent  to  my  anger,  there  only  remains 
my  admiration  for  you,  my  tenderness  and 
love,  all  that  makes  the  heart  great,  good 
and  happy.  Good  night,  beloved;  go  to  bed 
as  soon  as  possible  and  enjoy  the  sweetest 
sleep,  lulled  by  my  good  wishes. 

JULIETTE. 

aoth  September,  1851. 

Saturday  morning,  8.30. 

Good-morning,  my  beloved,  good-morning. 
Sleep  well.  I  love  you.  I  have  just  passed 
under  your  windows  for  the  second  time. 
They  were  hermetically  closed,  which  makes 
me  think  you  are  still  sleeping  and  regaining 
your  health  and  strength,  which  you  will  need 
more  than  ever  at  the  present  time  of  savage 
reaction.  I  will  not  ask  when  I  can  see  you, 
as  1  know  you  do  not  belong  to  yourself ;  but 


nation 


128 


Ube  IRomance  ot 


TLove'e  £>es 
per^ence 


I  cannot  help  hoping  it  will  be  soon.  If  you 
knew  how  the  sight  of  you  is  so  necessary  to 
my  life,  my  poor  beloved,  you  would  under- 
stand how  I  long  for  the  least  moment  you 
can  spare  out  of  your  ties  of  family  affection, 
political  duties,  and  your  other  work.  Now 
to  all  these  occupations  is  added  the  perse- 
cution of  this  stupid  government.  Where 
will  it  stop  ?  On  whom  will  they  inflict  a 
further  iniquity  ?  But  I  promise  you  that 
whatever  happens,  I  will  never  fail  in  courage, 
love,  and  devotion  towards  you.  I  should  be 
too  glad  to  die  if  I  could  spare  you  any  pain 
or  trouble,  as  I  love  you  and  your  worthy  and 

noble  family  also. 

JULIETTE. 

2Oth  September,  1851. 
Saturday  afternoon,  4.30. 

Be  tranquil,  my  beloved,  as  it  is  I  alone  you 
love.  I  will  not  let  anything  shake  my  trust 
and  confidence  in  you,  whatever  appearances 
and  ambuscades  may  arise  against  us.  I  can- 
not live  any  longer  without  the  thought  that 


IDictor 


.  2>rouet 


129 


you  prefer  me  to  all  others ;  that  I  am  the  life 
of  your  life  and  soul  of  your  soul,  as  you  are 
my  soul  and  life.  But  now,  beloved,  that  we 
have  exchanged  these  holy  promises  of  love 
and  fidelity  and  confidence,  I  implore  you  to 
think  only  of  yourself  and  your  dear  family, 
which  is  mine  also  through  the  devotion  I 
feel  for  them  and  the  reverent  affection  with 
which  they  inspire  me.  God  in  His  justice 
and  mercy  has  left  me  no  other  duty  than  to 
serve  you  all  until  death. 

My  love  will  give  me  greater  strength  to 
triumph  over  all  the  misfortunes  that  may 
befall  you.  Be  tranquil,  noble  persecuted 
ones,  fear  nothing  my  great  beloved,  my 
heart  is  a  good  shield,  proof  against  all  wick- 
edness, all  vindictiveness,  and  all  dangers.  If 
I  pray  God  to  turn  them  away  from  you,  it  is 
not  to  be  sparing  of  my  devotion,  which  is 
as  inexhaustible  as  my  love,  but  in  order  to 
spare  you  this  monstrous  ingratitude,  which 
would  cause  even  the  heart  of  God  to  bleed, 
as  in  the  time  of  Judas.  JULIETTE. 


feolg 

promises 


130 


Ube  IRomance  ot 


love 

lochs  in 
at  tbe 

TKfllntow 


7th  October,  1851. 
Tuesday  evening,  9.30. 

DEAR  ADORED  BELOVED, 

You  think,  perhaps,  that  it  is  enough  for 
you  to  leave  me  for  me  to  resign  myself 
never  to  see  you  again  ?  Well,  you  are  much 
mistaken,  for  as  soon  as  I  lose  touch  with 
your  dear  little  body,  my  mind  and  soul 
follow  you  in  spite  of  space  and  distance. 
This  evening,  just  now,  I  stayed  under  your 
windows  all  the  time  I  saw  any  light  in  your 
room.  I  saw  you  close  the  blinds  and  read 
by  your  candle.  What  were  you  reading  ? 
Letters,  probably.  I  should  have  liked  to 
double  my  personality  so  as  to  read  them 
over  your  shoulder,  not  out  of  indiscreet  curi- 
osity, but  through  love's  jealousy.  As  soon 
as  my  hand  no  longer  feels  the  trembling  of 
thine,  as  soon  as  my  eyes  no  longer  gaze  into 
thine,  when  my  lips  cease  to  feel  thy  breath, 
all  my  doubts,  my  anguish,  rush  back  together 
and  I  feel  my  heart  dying  away  as  if  my  life 
were  passing  away  from  me.  However, 


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1o  ^inithwhnfiH  aril  )o  slhr1' 


Dictor  Ibuao  anfc  /IDme.  IDrouet 


it  is  not  after  the  two  nice  evenings  you  gave       love's 

Defect 

me  a  day  ago  that  I  can  doubt  your  tender- 
ness and  kindness  to  me;  therefore  I  do  not 
doubt,  I  have  never  doubted,  but  ...  I 
love  you  too  well,  and  it  is  in  love,  above  all, 
that  excess  is  a  defect.  I  know  it  without 
being  able  or  wishing  to  correct  myself  of  it. 

JULIETTE. 

7th  October,  1851. 
Tuesday  evening,  10.45. 

DEAR  LITTLE  PET, 

It  is  probable  that  you  are  going  to  bed  now 
and  I  send  you  a  nice  little  good-night  full  of 
sweet  rest  and  delightful  dreams.  Make  the 
best  of  your  night's  rest  and  try  to  come  as 
early  as  possible  to-morrow  so  that  we  may 
be  longer  together.  The  two  lovely  evenings 
we  lately  passed  together  awakened  all  the 
vivid  sensations  of  your  by-gone  happiness. 
It  seems  to  me  as  if  all  these  joys,  all  these 
delights  and  ecstasy  were  felt  by  me  for  the 
first  time  and  that  to-day  is  the  day  following 
the  1 7th  February,  1833. 


132 


ZEbe  IRomance  of 


Illusions 


It  is  an  illusion  that  is  left  for  me  alone,  but 
it  is  none  the  less  dear  and  I  would  like  to 
prolong  it  during  each  hour  of  the  years  of 
my  life.  My  Victor,  until  to-morrow,  but  till 
then,  think  of  me,  regret  my  absence,  long 
for  me,  and  love  me  a  little.  I  will  repay  you 
for  it  a  hundredfold  now  and  in  eternity.  1 

love  thee! 

JULIETTE. 

17th  October,  1851. 
Friday  morning,  7  o'clock. 

Good-morning,  my  poor  darling,  and  happi- 
ness for  you  if  my  prayer  is  granted.  I  have 
spent  more  than  two-thirds  of  the  night  seek- 
ing for  some  means  to  make  you  happy.  I 
do  not  know  if  I  have  found  it;  but  I  am  sure 
of  the  sincerity  of  my  devotion  as  I  am  sure  I 
love  you  more  than  my  life.  Do  not  hesitate 
therefore  to  use  it  for  your  happiness,  my 
poor  darling,  as  I  swear  by  all  that  is  sacred 
in  heaven  and  on  the  earth  that  whatever  use 
you  make  of  it,  I  will  resign  myself  to  it  and 
bless  you.  The  only  thing  that  might  impel 


IDictor  tmgo  anfc  fl&me.  2>rouet 


'33 


me  to  the  saddest  extremity  would  be  your 
treachery — but  that  is  no  longer  possible.  Do 
not  be  surprised  or  sorry  at  my  being  so 
anxious  to  see  you  happy,  my  dear  beloved, 
and  that  I  would  like  to  secure  your  happiness 
at  all  costs  and  sacrifices. 

If  you  knew  how  and  how  much  I  love 
you,  you  would  understand  that  there  is  no- 
thing else  in  the  world,  so  that  if  I  thought 
you  were  unhappy  and  missed  with  regret 
somebody  or  something,  my  life  would  be  a 
fruitless  martyrdom  without  any  compensa- 
tion. Think  of  that,  dear  beloved,  and  try  to 
be  as  happy  as  possible,  so  that  the  reflection 
of  your  happiness  may  reach  my  soul  and 

completely  satisfy  it. 

JULIETTE. 

1 9th  October,  1851. 
Sunday  morning,  4.00. 

My  nights  are  all  alike,  one  after  the  other, 
my  poor  beloved.  Once  the  first  sleep  is 
over,  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  sleep  again. 
If  these  sleepless  nights  had  no  other  incon- 


Xove,  tbc 
'Cvrant 


134 


Ube  IRomance  of 


•Mights 
of  Doubt 


venience  than  to  keep  my  eyes  open  and 
cause  me  to  turn  twenty  times  a  minute,  I 
would  not  trouble  you  about  them,  but  the 
nightmare  that  oppresses  me  when  awake 
does  not  go  away  with  daylight.  I  must  ex- 
plain the  cause,  so  that  you  may  not  be 
anxious  about  it.  I  am  convinced  that  if  you 
do  not  deceive  me  and  love  me  only  as  I  do 
you  and  as  I  need  to  be  loved,  all  this  agita- 
tion will  vanish  and  give  way  to  the  most 
perfect  calm  and  happiness.  I  am  sure  that 
if  you  deceive  me  in  anything,  I  shall  not  be 
able  to  escape  the  sad  fate  by  which  I  am 
threatened.  I  am  so  certain  of  what  will 
happen  in  such  a  case  that  I  would  not  make 
any  resistance,  or  either  hasten  or  retard  one 
of  the  results  I  foresee.  Besides,  I  think  we 
are  approaching  a  crisis,  as  it  seems  to  me 
impossible  that  this  state  of  things  can  be 
indefinitely  prolonged,  whatever  our  courage, 
patience,  generosity,  and  resignation.  Some- 
thing definite  must  at  last  spring  from  this 
long  and  cruel  trial  which  has  now  lasted 


Uictor  trnoo  ant)  flDme.  £>rcuet 


135 


nearly  four  months.     Heaven  knows  how  I 

hope  for  it. 

JULIETTE. 

1 9th  October,  1851. 
Sunday  morning,  7.00. 

Good-morning,  my  Victor,  good-morning. 
I  have  just  got  up,  rather  more  tired  than 
when  I  went  to  bed ;  this  is  owing  to  the  ter- 
rible night  I  have  gone  through.  Perhaps  the 
occupation  and  amusements  of  the  day  will 
take  away  this  physical  and  mental  agitation 
caused  by  insomnia.  However,  my  poor  Vic- 
tor, I  cannot  conceal  that  I  am  in  a  highly  nerv- 
ous condition  and  I  appeal  to  you  to  calm  it. 
You  must  understand  I  cannot  continue  to 
pass  my  life  in  grasping  at  an  illusive  hope 
which  falls  back  like  a  heavy  stone  on  my 
heart  and  crushes  it.  I  do  not  reproach  you, 
for  I  admit  that  all  you  do  so  uselessly  to  de- 
lude me  springs  from  a  deeply  generous  and 
devoted  feeling,  but  as  my  heart  is  not  thereby 
deceived,  what  is  the  use  of  all  these  precau- 
tions and  hesitancies  ?  I  do  not  want  them, 


asitgbtcfc 
{Doming 


136 


Ube  "Romance  of 


for  far  from  calming  me,  they  make  my  de- 
spair more  painful  and  violent.  My  poor  be- 
loved, my  head  is  burning,  and  my  thoughts 
are  thereby  affected.  I  do  not  wish  to 
frighten  you,  but  I  think  it  is  better  to  show 
you  into  what  a  condition  I  have  been  brought 
by  a  state  of  things  which  has  become  un- 
bearable and  more  and  more  impossible  for 
me  to  endure  every  day.  I  implore  you  to 
come  to  a  decision  that  will  restore  tran- 
quillity to  your 

JULIETTE. 

ipth  October,  1851. 
Sunday  evening,  8.00. 

It  is  over.  I  am  no  longer  foolish.  1  love 
you,  believe  in  you.  All  the  rest  is  nothing, 
provided  you  love  me  and  love  no  other. 
My  Victor,  my  sweet  beloved,  don't  be 
frightened  at  this  long  and  cruel  crisis,  which 
will  be  the  last,  if  you  will  not  take  away 
your  confidence  from  me.  You  will  see  how 
my  heart  will  again  live  and  love.  But  for 
that  it  is  necessary  to  tell  me  everything  and 


Dictor  Dugo  anO  flDme.  Drouet 


137 


conceal  nothing,  not  even  the  hole  in  the 
chimneypiece  through  which  my  love  might 
fly  away  and  never  return.  My  Victor,  my 
dear  beloved,  do  not  withdraw  anything  of 
that  which  you  have  granted  me,  if  you  have 
any  regard  for  your  eternal  repose,  if  you 
have  a  thought  for  my  soul.  Remember  my 
happiness  and  life  depend  on  your  complete 
and  absolute  sincerity.  For  my  part,  my 
darling,  I  promise  you  to  be  very  reasonable, 
confiding,  and  brave,  and  1  will  keep  my 
promise.  All  around  I  feel  the  love,  solici- 
tude, and  admiration  I  have  for  you. 

JULIETTE. 

4th  November,  1851. 
Tuesday  morning,  8  o'clock. 

Good-morning,  my  sweet  beloved,  good- 
morning,  best  and  most  loved  of  men.  I 
endeavour  to  please  you,  my  Victor,  I  wish 
to  obey  you  in  everything,  but  my  nature 
does  not  obey  with  docility  the  wishes  of  my 
heart.  My  efforts  are  in  vain,  it  resists  me 
with  inflexible  obstinacy.  Therefore  1  implore 


Hutunm 
Uears 


138 


ttbe  IRomance  of 


I  n  flftclans 


you  not  to  pay  any  more  attention  to  it  and 
to  keep  account  of  my  efforts  and  good-will 
alone.  I  think  with  deep  sorrow  that  from 
to-day  our  happy  time  is  finished.  When 
will  it  come  again  ?  It  is  difficult  to  foresee, 
owing  to  politics  and  the  events  which  are 
impending. 

The  greatness  and  importance  of  your 
duties  will  prevent  you  from  thinking  of  and 
missing  with  regret  the  sweet  moments  we 
used  to  spend  together;  but  I,  whose  only 
occupation  in  the  world  is  to  love  you,  will 
be  very  lonely,  useless,  and  sad  from  to-day. 
However,  my  sweet  beloved,  I  promise  you 
to  have  courage  and  resignation.  I  promise 
you  this,  so  as  not  to  add  to  your  cares  and 
anxieties  any  concern  as  to  my  unavoidable 
sadness.  Victor,  my  beloved,  do  not  ask  me 
to  pretend  to  be  happy  and  cheerful.  Let  me 
be  calm  and  tranquil  in  this  life  bereft  of  love 
and  happiness.  That  is  all  that  my  reason, 
united  with  my  courage  and  resignation,  is 
capable  of.  I  know  you  will  be  pleased  with 


IDictor  tm0o  anD  flDme.  Drouet 


139 


me  if  you  will  indulge  me  a  little  on  this 
point.  I  love  you,  my  Victor.  You  will 
know  that  still  better  later  on. 

JULIETTE. 

4th  November,  1851. 
Tuesday  morning,  10.00. 

MY  BELOVED, 

When  you  speak  to  me  with  so  much 
sweetness  and  kindness  I  feel  tempted  to 
turn  round  and  ask  to  whom  such  ineffable 
tenderness  is  shown,  so  incredulous  and  wild 
has  my  poor  heart  become  during  the  last 
four  months.  But,  when  I  see  you  smiling 
so  kindly  and  talking  with  such  patience  and 
gentleness  on  all  that  may  console  me  and 
give  me  hope,  my  confidence  gains  the 
upper  hand  and  I  abandon  myself  with 
wild  joy  to  the  happiness  of  having  found 
you  again  entirely  and  for  ever.  Unfor- 
tunately you  are  not  always  here  and  will 
be  here  less  than  ever,  and  I  fear  my  solitude 
before  it  comes.  Not  only  shall  I  be  alone 
but  you  will  be  away,  which  is  to  me 


Ube 

power  of 

Gentleness 


140 


IRomance  of 


Oiators 


like  a  foretaste  of  death.  I  implore  you,  my 
too  well-beloved  Victor,  to  let  me  see  you 
whenever  you  can,  be  it  only  for  a  few  min- 
utes. I  ask  this  for  your  own  peace  of  mind, 
as  you  are  so  solicitous  of  my  happiness.  If 
you  could  manage  to  let  me  attend  the  meet- 
ings every  evening,  1  should  be  the  happiest 
of  women,  notwithstanding  the  more  or  less 
bald  orators.  I  would  see  you  and  go  with 
you  as  far  as  the  Conciergerie  on  coming 
out,  and  would  return  home  contented  and 
happy.  Is  there  really  no  way  of  giving  me 
this  happiness  ?  You  have  always  said  No, 
but  circumstances  change  and  therefore  I  beg 
you  again  to  consider  whether  you  could  alter 
your  decision  and  give  me  this  delightful 

pleasure. 

JULIETTE. 


Dtctor  lw(jo  anfc  flDme.  Drouet 


141 


FROM  AN  UNKNOWN  LADY  TO  VICTOR 
HUGO 

October  ipth,  1851. 

It  seems  to  me,  my  dear  poet,  that  you  are 
somewhat  forgetful  of  me.  I  say  that  it  seems 
to  be  so,  as  I  am  not  quite  sure,  and  hope  it 
is  not  so.  In  any  event,  I  think  of  you  often. 
I  ardently  wish  to  see  you  again,  and  do  all 
I  can  that  it  may  be  as  soon  as  possible.  It 
is  only  thus  that  I  can  prove  I  think  of  you. 
Will  you  be  engaged  next  Saturday  ?  If  not 
(as  I  hope),  we  could  see  each  other  like  last 
time.  You  will  think,  perhaps,  that  is  very 
soon;  but  I  find  it  a  very  long  time.  It  is  be- 
cause I  admire  and  love  you  so  much.  Every 
word,  every  line,  every  verse  by  you  I  read 
(and  I  read  them  almost  all  day  long)  increases 
my  admiration  for  my  poet.  Imagine  then 
how  slow  time  is  while  you  are  away  from 


B 


vous 


142 


Ube  IRomance  of 


Cbose 

promised 

Verses, 

please 


me!  What  reason  have  you  for  thinking  of 
me  ?  Not  one,  unfortunately,  except  that  I 
love  you  so  much.  That  is  my  only  merit. 
You  think  me  pretty,  you  told  me;  but  there 
are  so  many  girls  as  pretty  or  prettier  than  I, 
though  not  one  who  could  admire  you  more 
than  1  do.  Of  that  I  am  certain.  Well,  I 
hope  you  will  be  kind  enough  to  come  on 
Saturday;  besides,  you  promised  to  come. 
There  is  another  promise  1  must  remind  you 
of— the  verses.  They  are  certainly  due  to 
me,  and  I  rely  on  receiving  them.  Could  you 
come  a  little  earlier  than  last  time  ? — between 
a  quarter  to  two  and  two  o'clock.  If  you 
think  it  safer  not  to  enter  the  church,  do  not 
alight  from  the  vehicle.  I  will  look  out  for 
you  and  join  you.  If  you  should  be  unable 
to  come  on  Saturday  send  me  the  blank  letter 
(I  should  like  it  better  were  it  not  so)  as  soon 
as  possible,  and  I  will  immediately  appoint 
some  other  day.  Sometimes  I  am  afraid  I  am 
doing  wrong  in  seeing  you  like  this,  unknown 
to  my  family;  but  probably  I  should  not  be 


IDictor 


an&  flDme,  H)rouet 


'43 


allowed  to  see  you,  and  I  do  want  to  ;  so  that 
it  is  you,  my  poet,  whom  I  trust.  I  come  to 
you  as  to  my  beloved  poet  in  whom  I  have  as 
much  faith  as  in  God,  whatever  people  may 
say.  If  you  love  me  ever  so  little  you  will  not 
take  advantage  of  the  entire  trust  of  a  girl  of 
seventeen,  whose  only  fault  is  to  love  you  too 
much — that  is,  according  to  what  people  say; 
for  you  know  well  I  think  one  can  never  love 
you  too  much,  and  that  in  any  case  it  can 
never  be  wrong  to  do  so.  Adieu,  my  poet, 

until  Saturday. 

Your  CLAIRE.* 

*  The  young  lady  whose  rendezvous  with  the  poet  at  the 
door  of  the  Assembly  on  July  25,  185 1 ,  excited  the  jealousy 
of  Juliette  Drouet.  See  the  latter's  impassioned  remonstrance 
in  her  letter  to  Victor  Hugo  of  the  same  day,  p.  108. 


love,  fxr 

GnlE  fault 


144 


IRomance  of 


TTbe 

Bream  of 
Claire 


CLAIRE  TO  VICTOR  HUGO. 

22d  November,  1851. 

Saturday. 

If  I  were  to  tell  you,  my  beloved,  that  since 
Wednesday  I  have  thought  only  of  you,  per- 
haps you  would  not  believe  me;  perhaps, 
but  it  is  the  exact  truth.  I  think  of  you,  no- 
thing but  you.  If  I  wished  to  get  rid  of  this 
thought  I  don't  think  I  could  do  so.  I  say  I 
don't  think,  but  I  have  not  tried  to  do  so  nor 
ever  will.  I  am  so  happy  when  I  think  of 
you.  To  read  your  verses  and  think  of  you 
is  my  only  happiness.  And  see,  you  occupy 
my  thoughts  so  much  that  I  not  only  think  of 
you  by  day  but  dream  of  you  at  night.  I  am 
very  glad  it  is  so,  and  hope  you  also  think  of 
me  a  little,  a  little  or  much  or  even  too  much. 
Everything  passed  off  well  Wednesday.  They 
did  not  send  to  look  for  me,  and  on  my  re- 


Dtctor  tw0o  ant)  flDme.  Brouet 


'45 


turn  in  time  I  thought  of  doing  the  same  thing 
again.  In  a  fortnight,  I  hope,  I  will  see  you 
again,  and  this  thought  makes  me  very  happy. 
You  told  me,  my  poet,  that  when  you  are 
with  me  you  lose  your  memory.  Well,  it 's 
exactly  the  same  with  me.  1  only  think  of 
looking  at  you  and  listening  to  your  voice;  I 
forget  what  I  wanted  to  ask,  say  to  you.  I  do 
not  even  tell  you  how  much  I  admire  you, 
how  much  I  love  you,  how  often  1  think  of 
you.  But  you  know  that  very  well,  don't 
you  ?  and  then,  when  I  am  no  longer  with 
you,  my  memory  comes  back.  I  see  all  I  for- 
got and  say  I  was  very  stupid  that  I  did  not 
profit  by  the  time  I  had  spent  with  you ;  but 
it  is  then  too  late,  and  another  time  it  will  be 
the  same.  For  example:  On  Wednesday  I 
forgot  among  a  lot  of  other  things,  two  rather 
important  ones,  and  I  will  repair  the  omission. 
First,  you  asked  me  whether  I  had  my  por- 
trait, and  I  did  not  remember  that  uncle  had 
had  us  all  photographed.  It  is  ugly,  but  it 
must  be  admitted  there  is  a  likeness.  I  have 


TLove'a  In* 

torication 


146 


IRomance  ot 


love 

Seeks  a 

Hew  Wew 


asked  my  uncle  for  the  best  one  that  is  left  and 
will  bring  it  to  you  when  I  come  to  see  you, 
too  happy  if  it  gives  you  the  least  pleasure. 
At  first  I  thought  of  surprising  you  with  it, 
but  that  is  not  a  good  idea.  That  is  my  first 
omission,  now  for  the  second.  You  told  me 
you  would  get  me  tickets  for  the  Chamber  of 
Deputies,  and  I  thought  I  had  told  you  on 
what  day.  If  it  is  an  interesting  sitting, 
I  could  always  find  someone  to  take  me 
there,  but  if  it  is  going  to  be  quiet,  it  must 
be  on  a  day  when  my  uncle  is  disengaged 
so  as  to  take  me;  he  is  only  free  on  Wed- 
nesdays and  Thursdays.  As  I  am  going  to 
the  Chamber  only  to  see  you,  I  care  little 
for  fine  speeches,  so  if  you  could  send  me 
tickets  for  Wednesday  or  Thursday  next 
we  should  go,  and  I  should  be  very  glad 
to  see  you.  You  see,  my  dear  poet,  I  have 
been  very  forgetful,  but  it  is  not  my  fault, 
but  yours.  I  ask  you  to  love  and  think  of 

your 

CLAIRE. 


Dictor  Ibugo  ant)  ADme.  Drouet 


147 


Of  Victor  Hugo's  inconstancy  to  Adele,  his 
wife,  to  Juliette,  his  mistress,  to  Claire,  his 
later  fancy,  or  to  any  of  his  other  fitful  attach- 
ments, it  is  not  my  purpose  to  write,  except 
that  1  point  out  one  flagrant  peccadillo  to  show 
the  benign,  the  unexampled  abnegation  of 
Madame  Hugo  during  all  the  term  of  her 
wifely  devotion  to  the  man  whose  genius — 
in  her  fond  eyes  —  absolved  his  every  weak- 
ness. 

Chopin,  writing  to  his  sister  on  July  20, 
1845,  relates  among  other  items  of  Paris 
gossip : 

"What  shall  I  tell  you  of  Paris?  Albert 
[Albert  Grzymala,  a  Polish  emigre,  a  friend  of 
Chopin]  only  tells  me  what  the  newspapers 
had  related,  without  giving  names,  of  the 
adventure  that  happened  a  few  days  ago  to 
Victor  Hugo.  M.  Billard,  a  not  very  cele- 
brated historical  painter,  very  ugly,  had  a 
pretty  wife.  .  .  .  M.  Billard  surprised 
them.  .  .  .  Victor  Hugo  was  compelled 
to  show  to  the  person  who  wanted  to  arrest 


Cbopin'0 

©osslp  of 
Hugo's 
Error 


148 


Ube  "Romance  of 


B  fugitive 
poet 


him  his  medal  of  a  French  peer,  so  that  he 
might  be  left  temporarily  in  peace.  .  .  .  Hugo 
has  gone  away  to  travel  for  a  few  months. 
Madame  Hugo  (very  magnanimously)  has 
taken  Madame  Billard  under  her  protection  ! 
and  Juliette,  that  actress  of  the  Porte  Saint 
Martin,  famous  about  ten  years  ago,  who  has 
been  under  Hugo's  protection  for  a  long  time, 
in  spite  of  Madame  Hugo,  his  children,  and 
his  poetry  as  to  family  morality,  this  Juliette, 
I  repeat,  has  gone  away  with  him."  * 

It  was  Madame  Hugo's  magnanimous  con- 
duct on  this  occasion  that  prevented  a  duel 
and  a  public  scandal.  There  had  not  long  af- 
terward come  a  day  when,  with  her  tacit 
consent,  the  poet  had  publicly  two  homes — 
Hauteville  House,  where  he  took  his  breakfast 
with  his  wife,  and  the  little  house  near  by, 
called  "The  Friends,"  where  he  generally 
dined  with  Madame  Drouet,  often  with  his 
sons,  and  friends  who  might  be  visiting  him 

*  "  Chopin's  Unpublished  Souvenirs,"  Temps,  Jan.  28, 
1903. 


Dictor 


an&  flDme.  H>rouet 


149 


from  France.  The  latter  would  generally  pay 
their  respects  to  Madame  Hugo  first,  then  pass 
on  down  the  street  to  the  livelier  social  condi- 
tion of  Madame  Drouet's  petit  salon. 

I  borrow  the  following  pathetic  picture  from 
M.  Asseline: 

"I  went  one  autumn  day  into  Madame  Vic- 
tor Hugo's  drawing-room  at  Hauteville  House 
and  found  her  alone,  sunk  in  sad  thoughts, 
and  lying  back  seemingly  exhausted.  Her 
eyes  had  already  grown  very  weak,  and  she 
could  not  see  how  painfully  I  was  impressed 
at  finding  her  so  poorly.  '  You  are  not  to 
dine  with  me  to-day,'  she  said.  '  And  why  ? ' 
'  Our  gentlemen  have  organised  a  little  merry- 
making at  Madame  Drouet's  and  they  are 
expecting  you.'  'But  I  prefer  dining  with 
you;  I  shall  certainly  not  leave  you  alone.' 
'No,  I  shall  dine  with  my  sister;  and  really  I 
shall  take  it  ill  if  you  stay.  I  insist  on  your 
going  to  Madame  Drouet's.  It  will  please  my 
husband.  There  are  few  opportunities  of 
pleasure-making  here.  I  repeat  that  you  are 


flftatamc 
fjugo'a 


nation 


IRomance  of 


H 

pathetic 
picture 


expected.  Go,  you  will  laugh  and  the  time 
will  pass  gaily.'  I  looked  at  my  cousin  as  she 
sat  in  the  shadow  of  the  great  curtains  with 
their  heavy  folds.  Her  forehead  was  of  mar- 
ble, her  lips  without  colour,  her  eyes  almost 
lifeless.  Then  I  drew  my  arm-chair  nearer  to 
hers  and  we  lost  ourselves  in  endless  talk. 
.  .  .  The  day  was  waning.  We  exchanged 
no  thoughts  that  were  not  of  sadness.  '  Go, 
go,'  she  said,  at  last;  'you  would  only  make 
me  cry!'  I  took  a  few  steps  towards  the 
door.  She  called  me  back.  '  You  will  write 
down  for  me  that  fine  passage  of  verse  you 
were  quoting  a  moment  ago: 

"  '  Time,  the  old  god,  invests  all  things  with  honour 
And  makes  them  white. 

And  now  be  quick  and  join  your  cousins; 
don't  keep  them  waiting.' ' 

Three  years  thereafter  (in  1868)  Madame 
Hugo  died.  Juliette  Drouet  died  on  May  n, 
1883,  and  is  buried  in  the  old  cemetery  at 
Saint-Mande.  Three  months  previous  to  her 


IDictor  tw0o  aito  flDme.  Drouet 


death,  Victor  Hugo  wrote  in  the  Lime  de 
V Annrversaire  the  following  lines: 

"  Yes,  this  book  contains  my  life  and  thine. 
In  writing  in  this  book,  it  seems  to  me  I  am 
adding  sacred  hours  to  our  sweet  hours,  and 
eternity  to  our  existence.  ...  I  love 
thee  is  the  great  word.  God  said  it  to  the 
creation,  the  creation  repeats  it  to  Him.  I 
love  thee,  my  beloved  angel.  Let  us  com- 
mence the  fiftieth  year  with  that  divine  word : 
I  love  thee  !  " 

And  this  sweetheart  of  fifty  years,  this  be- 
loved embodiment  of  the  poet's  human  ideal, 
whose  charms  so  long  enslaved  him,  this  beau- 
tiful, magnetic  friend  of  that  great  French- 
man whom  the  world  has  enshrined,  lies  in 
an  unmarked  grave  under  two  flat  stones  ! 
And  in  curious  agreement  with  this  rude  fact 
is  the  other  fact  that,  so  far  as  I  have  been 
able  to  ascertain,  the  museums  of  France  and 
England  contain  only  one  portrait  of  Juliette 
Drouet,  and  that  a  poor  one,  by  Victor  Vilain, 
— an  engraving  in  a  book  published  at  Paris 


iOVC'3 

fiftieth 
Bnnia 

versan? 


IDictor  Ifouao  anfc  flDme.  Drouet 


in  1883  entitled  Le  Lime  d'Or  de  Victor 
Hugo.  What  a  jealous  and  effectual  sup- 
pression of  the  face  that  Victor  Hugo  loved  ! 
Can  it  be  that  Victor  Hugo  deliberately  sup- 
pressed Juliette  Drouet's  portrait  in  the  same 
way,  and  from  similar  motives,  in  which  the 
Nelson  family  endeavoured  (ineffectually)  to 
suppress  the  portrait  of  Lady  Hamilton  ?  * 

*  The  original  Drouet  letters  and  Fra^ois  Hugo's 
journal  are  the  property  of  Mr.  W.  A.  Luff,  St.  Peter  Port, 
Guernsey,  to  whom  I  am  indebted  for  their  use  in  this 
volume. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  AT  LOS  ANGELES 

THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
This  book  is  DUE  on  thtfjjdped  below 


'** 


OCT11 
JAN  2  01949 


JAY  1  2  1954 

HAY  7 


JAN  27  1955 

•AR  ?(*  "- 


C  E  I  V 

MAIN.  LOAN  DES 


A.M. 


D 


P.M. 

14I5IG 


OKI 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

BIB 


000  983  320     3 


